


Time Without Name, Part II

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry [17]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing can by found in many places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Without Name, Part II

 He was standing in a desert on a planet that he didn’t know, watching drifts of sand blow past his bare feet.  There were rocks scattered about, different shades of brown and gray and the occasional blue.  The wind touched him as well, tugging at his leggings, ruffling his hair, his tunics.  He lifted his head, scenting the breeze.  There was a faint, acrid hint to the air, something that reminded him of old fire.

“Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi turned in place, surprised to find that he wasn’t alone.  Another human stood a few steps away, his arms crossed, regarding Obi-Wan with an amused expression.  The man had shaggy brown hair that was cut short, and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue that reminded Obi-Wan of Qui-Gon’s.  He was wearing a bright blue tunic, leather pants, and a red cloak that fluttered in the wind.  Bits of archaic-looking armor rested on his shoulders and encircled his wrists.  There was a similarly ancient lightsaber strapped into place on his right thigh. 

“Funny how these things work out,” the man said.

“What things?” Obi-Wan asked, genuinely perplexed by both his companion and their current surroundings.

“You don’t remember me?” the man asked, stepping closer.  “Think, Obi-Wan.  We’ve met before.”

“Have we?” Obi-Wan stared at the stranger who had joined him in the desert.  Then he closed his eyes, letting memory flow.  He saw flashes, many things that made no sense, until…

_You’re close._

_Close to what, Ulic?_

_You’ll find out._

He opened his eyes again, realizing his mouth was hanging open in surprise.  “Ulic Qel-Droma.”

The Alderaanian Jedi Master grinned at him.  “That’s me.”

“But—” Obi-Wan shook his head, trying to calm his mind.  His memories seemed jumbled, far more confusing than they should have been.  “I remember Qui-Gon saying that you couldn’t reach this place any longer—unless I’m dead.  I’m not dead, am I?” he asked, concerned.  Sometimes it was hard to tell unless you were still hanging around with the living.

Ulic shook his head.  “No, you’re not dead.”

“Then…”  Obi-Wan looked around, and this time the landscape was more familiar.  He’d never been here before, that he was certain of.  The air he breathed would have triggered the memory, if nothing else.  That left vids, or holos, which meant the place had held some sort of importance in history—or perhaps in the war. 

“How are you doing this?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I didn’t do this.  You did.”

Obi-Wan took a step back.  “That’s ridiculous.  I’m not capable of this sort of thing.”

Ulic raised an eyebrow, and for some reason it sparked a memory, one that had never made any sense.

 _I just…wanted to see you._ Xanatos, standing in his home on Tatooine, long-dead and speaking to Obi-Wan anyway.  _See how you were._

“I’m dreaming,” Obi-Wan said, and Ulic nodded.  “But, dreaming or not, this is—how am I doing this?”

The man’s grin widened.  “You’ll find out.”

Obi-Wan scowled.  “It’s always fucking riddles with you, isn’t it?”  Then he shut his mouth so hard his teeth cracked together, eyes widening in surprise.  “But I—we’ve never spoken before!  Why am I talking to you like I know you?”

“Are you sure we haven’t?” Ulic asked, stepping close enough to rest a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  It was a warm, heavy, _living_ weight.  “You’ll remember it eventually, or not.  It’s not important right now.  What’s important is…”  Ulic hesitated, and for a moment his eyes filled with grief.  “Anyway.  Walk with me, Master Kenobi?”

What else was there to do?  Obi-Wan fell into step with a man that had died four thousand years before he was born, feeling sharp grains of sand grind into the soles of his feet.  _One would think that if I’m going to be traipsing across a desert, I’d at least have chosen to wear boots,_ he thought to himself, amused. 

This place, though barren, didn’t have the same scorching heat of Tatooine; it was cool, and the sun was muffled, as if it was always behind a cloud, but there were no clouds that he could see.  “Where are we?” he asked, while thinking, _When are we?_

Ulic, fortunately, understood what he meant.  “This is Ossus, as it looks in your time.  It actually makes me glad to see that it wasn’t utterly wiped out by the Cataclysm, considering that I was responsible for causing it.  Well,” he amended, “Aleema pulled the trigger, but she was doing what I told her to do.”

“With the _Corsair,_ ” Obi-Wan said, and Ulic nodded.  “One ship wiped out the entire Cron Cluster.”

“Just be grateful the _Corsair_ was the last warship of its kind, built when the Sith were a people with an Empire,” Ulic replied, reaching out and taking Obi-Wan’s hand with callused fingers.  “Let’s go back a bit, shall we?” he said, as the landscape around them began to blur.

Obi-Wan watched, fascinated, as the surface of the planet became harsher, and the sky grew darker.  Massive clouds of ash and smoke swirled above them, blocking out the sun.  Then the sun returned, brighter than ever, and the desert was gone.  In its place was a field of high grass, home to a multitude of orange and yellow flowers.  Where tumbled rock had once marked ancient ruins there now stood an array of stone buildings and high towers.  He could see people wandering the grounds, dressed in similar fashion to Ulic.  Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and there was no trace of that acrid scent now, just overwhelming greenery. 

“Welcome to the Great Library, as it was in my time,” Ulic said, and his voice was soft, reverent.  “It contains the lore of the Jedi of old, and the chronicles that tell of the time before the birth of the Republic—things the people of your time have long forgotten.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan’s heart simply stopped in his chest.  He had heard tales of the ruin of the Library from Yaddle, Tahl, and Kimal.  Archaeologists would occasionally find ruined datacards and bits of scrolls buried in the desert sand.  Those treasured fragments were all that remained of the Library in his time.  There was not a Jedi alive who didn’t understand how important the Great Library of Ossus had once been to the Order. 

Obi-Wan turned his head this way and that, trying to take in as many details as his eyes would allow.  Ulic led him along stone-lined pathways, where he and Obi-Wan went unnoticed by those they passed by.  Their dress was a fascinating mix of finished cloth and jagged edges.  Some Jedi wore armor, as his companion did, while others had elected to wear simple robes.  The more formal tunics of his time were still distant, unknown things.  Lightsaber hilts, when he noticed them, were wonderful blends of graceful curves and sharp edges.  What baffled him, though, was the lack of lightsabers on many of the individuals on the Library grounds.

Ulic smiled.  “Of course they don’t have lightsabers.  They’re not Jedi.  All are welcome here.”

“That’s incredible,” Obi-Wan said, tucking that little bit of knowledge away.  He knew of several Masters on the Council who would be absolutely floored by that notion.  The Archives in the Temple could be visited by non-Jedi, but only after rigorous screening.  Few passed.  The libraries of Obroa-skai were a far more popular research destination, since they were open to anyone.

More than once, he saw grizzled old Masters pause in their steps and glance in their direction, as if they could sense that something had changed, even if they couldn’t discern what.  Ulic smiled whenever he noticed, halting his and Obi-Wan’s progress until the Masters had gone on their way.

“There he is,” Ulic said at last, stopping next to a fountain that was sending jets of water into the clear blue sky.  Students were milling around the fountain’s base, studying from books and what seemed to be very primitive data readers.  Ulic pointed out a Draethos, a man with dusky gray skin and an elongated head.  The bottom of his jaw was marked by short, square teeth.  He bore no lightsaber, but every single molecule of the Draethos screamed _Jedi_ to Obi-Wan. 

The Jedi in question gestured to his companion, a Neti with gnarled old skin and a heavy, mournful brow.  The Neti was shaking his head at the Draethos, but he was smiling.  If there was an argument between them, it was a friendly one.

“Who are they?” Obi-Wan asked, tracking their progress as they walked past the fountain.  Many of the students smiled and waved at the pair, as if they were a familiar sight.

“The Draethos is Master Odan-Urr, founder of this Library.  At this point, he’s over a thousand years old.  The Cataclysm is still a decade away,” Ulic said, watching the pair of Masters, his gaze distant.  “You carry the crystals from his second lightsaber.  They’re from the weapon he used during the Great Hyperspace War.”

Force.  It had been one thing to find an echo of the ancient Master’s spirit when he had begun construction on his lightsaber.  It was quite another to actually _see_ the man. 

“He died during the Cataclysm, then?” Obi-Wan asked, though the question felt callous

Ulic shook his head, blinking away whatever memory he had been absorbed by.  “No.  Exar Kun killed him for the Sith Holocron that Odan-Urr had been protecting.  This was before anyone realized how far Kun had fallen, and there was no one to contradict the story he told—that Odan-Urr had passed into the Force, but not before naming Kun a Master and the new guardian of the Holocron.” 

Ulic tilted his head in the Neti’s direction.  “Do you recognize Master Odan-Urr’s companion?”

There weren’t very many Neti Jedi Masters in existence, not after the destruction of their chosen homeworld.  If Obi-Wan was placing the time period correctly, he could almost be certain of the Neti’s identity.  “It would have to be Ood Bnar.”

Ulic grinned.  “Good memory.  He’s an expert in Sith history, and talented at fending off Dark attacks.  He and Odan-Urr were the same age, fought the same battles, and were well-versed in trading barbs.”  Ulic’s expression sobered.  “You have to find him, Obi-Wan.”

“Find who— _Ood Bnar?”_   Obi-Wan stared at the other man.  “He died during the Cataclysm, Ulic!  Even the Jedi of my time know that much.”

Ulic raised an eyebrow.  “Did he?” he asked, the question just as sardonic as his expression. 

The details of the Library began to fade.  The grass and stone pathways became desert once more, and there was only crumbled rock and a few low, broken walls to mark the place where the Library had been.  Yet even that was losing substance; Obi-Wan’s time here was running out. 

“Ood Bnar has never crossed the veil, Obi-Wan.  He’s alive,” Ulic said.

“He can’t still be—Ulic, he’d be five thousand blasted years old!” 

“Good thing he’s a Neti, then,” Ulic responded, unconcerned.  “He never died, but none of us seem to be able to pinpoint his location, either.  Your Master was an excellent student.  Perhaps between the two of you, you’ll puzzle it out.”

“But—” Obi-Wan really needed to stop saying that word.  It was getting annoying.   “Ulic, that hasn’t even _happened_.” 

Ulic smiled, becoming transparent, starting to look more like a ghost than a living being.  “I’m sure Qui-Gon once told you that time is different here.  Time in _general_ is different from what we often perceive.  It’s not a linear thing.  It’s incorrect to say that those events haven’t happened, or have yet to happen.  It’s more correct to say that everything in time is happening all at once.  Yet even that is not the entire truth.”

Obi-Wan found his lips twitching with a barely suppressed smile.  “I am so confused.”

“That’s an excellent place to start,” Ulic said cheerfully.  Then he was gone.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Abella glanced at the chrono on the bedside table when her patient’s eyelids began to flutter.  “Just in time,” she murmured, congratulating herself.  If nothing else, her Trials were teaching her much in the ways of getting someone to sleep a specific amount of time.  The drugs were useful, but had their limits; the rest of the biorhythm corrections she had done with the Force.  Her Master would be pleased.

Obi-Wan made one of his nonsensical, just-waking noises that signaled actual consciousness.  She waited, patiently, while he came fully awake, and smiled when he turned groggy eyes towards her. 

“Hi there, Obi.  How’re you feeling today?”  It was a question she’d asked many times, lately.  Some of the responses she had received had been amusing.  _Other responses, not so much_ , Abella thought, touching the prickly new growth of fur on the back of her hand.

Obi-Wan blinked at her a few more times, and then he smiled at her.  “C’mere,” he whispered, waving his hand in a vague come-hither gesture.

Abella grinned and stood up, leaning over her patient.  This was the most coherent she’d seen him since just before they’d implemented their plan against Palpatine the Sith.  “How are you, crechemate?”

His lips quirked in another smile, then he grabbed the front of her tunics and pulled.  In the blink of an eye, they were nose to nose.  “Bella.  Stop…drugging me,” he slurred at her.  “Or I’ll…shave you bald…and give you to the Initiates.”

She drew back easily enough, the cloth of her tunics sliding through his drug-addled fingers.  “First, you have to answer some questions for me.  What day is it?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow and regarded her as if she had lost her mind.  When he spoke again, though, his voice was steadier, if hoarse.  “Chrono over there says it’s the third day of the week, and about two weeks from the last date I knew about.  Is that sufficient?”

“Trust me, it’s an improvement,” Abella said, her voice dry.  “That’s the first time you’ve been aware enough to even notice that the chrono existed.”

“Ah,” he said.  She’d known him long enough to know that he was confused and trying hard not to show it.  “Any more questions?”

“Just one,” she said, steeling herself.  This was how she’d lost the fur on her hand.  He’d seemed almost normal until she’d asked the question.  “Who is Senator Palpatine?”

Obi-Wan’s mouth opened, stark disbelief reflected in his eyes.  “Don’t—don’t bloody tell me that after everything we did, the bastard is _still_ a recognized Senator!”

Abella let loose a sigh of relief.  “No, no, he is not.”  _Thank the Force for that._   “I just needed to be certain that you were consciously aware of your time and place.  I’ll stop giving you the sedatives, but you’re going to stay on the pain meds for the time being.”

Obi-Wan nodded, only half-listening to what she was saying.  “I wasn’t aware of things properly before?”

“Not exactly,” Abella said, giving her patient a charming, reassuring smile that she knew he didn’t believe one bit.  “Go back to sleep, Obi-Wan,” she said, nudging his biorhythm in the right direction.  “You’ll be less muddled the next time you wake up.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

He was indeed less muddled the next time he awoke, but that was mostly because he woke up purring.  Warm fingers were carding through his hair, soothing and familiar and it felt _so damned good_.

“I’m glad you think so,” a familiar voice said in a quiet, rumbled echo to Obi-Wan’s purring.  “You’ve been leaning into my fingers like a feline with a favorite scritching spot for the past half-hour.”

“Have many favorite scritching spots,” Obi-Wan murmured in response, breathing out a long sigh of contentment.

“Glad to see that you’re still with us,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan knew that he was smiling, and there was probably more meaning to that statement than was immediately obvious.

He opened his eyes and looked up, finding Qui-Gon lying beside him, propped on his elbow.  Between the man’s unbound hair, deep blue eyes, and the loose shirt he wore, a deeper shade of that same cerulean blue, Obi-Wan managed one semi-coherent sound:   “Guh.”

“Your vocabulary needs work, though,” Qui-Gon added, suppressed laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Was just thinking…it would be nice to wake up this way for the rest of my life.”

Qui-Gon gave him a gentle smile.  “I will always be here for you, if you wish it.”

The words were familiar, and made him smile in return.  “I do wish it,” he whispered. 

Qui-Gon bent over him and planted a soft kiss on his temple.  “There are some others that would like to see you when you’re not snoring at them,” he said.  “Would you like Abella to bring them in?”

“Absolutely,” Obi-Wan replied, and promptly fell asleep again.

The next time he chased away the cobwebs of sleep, he found himself staring at a patch of sunlight that was shining down on the white coverlet.  The sheets next to him were rumpled; he brushed his fingers over them and found the barest traces of remaining warmth that made him smile.  Qui-Gon must have just awoken, so he hadn’t missed much of whatever this new day was.  He sought out the chrono in the room, still in its place on the bedside table.  Fifth day.  He’d lost two more days to these random and annoying _naps_.

Obi-Wan sat up gingerly, feeling fresh but healing bruises on his hand where tubes must have been living.  He ached, but in a vague, distant way.  _Surprised I’m still hurting at all,_ he thought, staring around the room, still feeling dazed.  Two weeks of unconsciousness should have given the Healers plenty of time to rearrange his insides. 

With a jolt that made him sit up straight in bed, Obi-Wan recognized where he was—Kaazcint, in the guest room of his father’s farm, the room Cliegg Lars had always told him was his whenever Obi-Wan wanted it.

He pulled back the sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  _No other tubes to deal with, oh, bless you and your excellent timing, Bella,_ he thought.  He could barely process thought.  Trying to deal with a catheter or an i.v. line or buttons of any sort would have defeated him.

Standing was an exercise in held breath and expectation.  Obi-Wan was relieved to find that, except for a moment of dizziness, he could walk around the room with slow, if a touch unsteady, steps.  Some of his belongings, likely delivered from the Temple, lurked in the bedroom’s clothespress.  He ditched sleep pants for his own beige leggings and a loose brown shirt that he could pull over his head, wincing at last when his still-healing innards complained about the stretch when he lifted his arms.

He touched a much longer shirt hanging next to one of his tunics, knowing by size and fabric and scent that it belonged to Qui-Gon.  He and Qui-Gon were sharing a closet.

He and Qui-Gon were _sharing a bed_.  On his father and stepmother’s farm.  On Kaazcint.

The thought made him so happy that for a moment, Obi-Wan just stood there and grinned like a lunatic at the clothespress door.

Then the scent of brewing tea caught his attention; his stomach rumbled as if to remind him that it had not done anything useful in weeks, and it needed food _now._

Obi-Wan opened the door, peering out into the sunlit hall.  The bedroom had been a haven of silence, it seemed, because now he could hear the din made by a large group of people congregating in the kitchen.  He walked the length of the hallway with his hand sliding along the wall for balance, well-prepared for the little spates of dizziness that struck as he went. 

The controlled chaos that he saw at the end of the hallway brought him up short.  As he watched, Obi-Wan muzzily tried to figure out what reality he’d woken up in _this_ time.

Abella was sitting on one of the couches, as far from the table as she could get and still be part of the conversation, grooming herself with a bristled, worn brush.  The crest on her head was long enough now to be distinct from the rest of her fur, which meant she must have stopped clipping it short in her approximation of the Padawan style. 

She was grinning at Garen, who looked rough, as if he’d just spent weeks out in the field.  He was sitting at the long farm table, alternatively shoveling food into his mouth, talking, and waving his fork at the kitchen. 

“There’s Wookiee in my food again!” Garen called, pointing his utensil at the only Wookiee in residence.

Rillian, in the midst of removing a baked lump of sweetbread from a hot stone bowl, paused to glare at Garen.  [Wookiee hair adds flavor,] she retorted.  [And I don’t shed nearly so much as you!]

“Yeah, you can’t cook eggs without wearing a body net,” Anakin added, carrying a plate of what looked to be scrambled eggs to the table.  At least, Obi-Wan thought they were eggs, but he’d never seen purple ones before.  Blue, red, green, yellow, orange, and white, yes, but purple was new.  “I’d rather eat my dinner without gnawing on your chest hairs.”

“Aw, you’re just jealous because you don’t have any yet,” Garen taunted good-naturedly.

Anakin paused, as if thinking it over, before giving Garen a positively smug smile.  “Nope!  No reason to be.”

“Boys,” said Shmi, raising an eyebrow at the exchange.  Her lips were quivering in an effort not to grin at the commentary, but Obi-Wan supposed someone had to set an example for Owen.  Obi-Wan’s little brother was failing to hide a smirk behind a dishcloth, and when he walked past his father, Cliegg gave him a gentle smack on the back of his head that made Owen giggle. 

Qui-Gon was sitting at the table a few seats over from Garen.  He radiated calm stillness in direct contrast to the bustle of activity, but he was swiping strips of fried _rak_ meat from a plate when he thought no one was looking.   

As if sensing eyes upon him, Qui-Gon looked over and smiled at Obi-Wan.  _There you are.  Thinking of sticking around for more than two minutes this time?_

 _I bloody well_ hope _so,_ Obi-Wan said.  _Think you could stand my company?_

 _I would love to share in your company while you’re conscious,_ Qui-Gon replied, a wistfulness in his mental tone that told Obi-Wan he had been missed. 

Anakin had retreated to the kitchen long enough to return to the table with mugs of steaming tea in each hand.  “I’ll fight you for one of those,” Obi-Wan said, relieved when his voice sounded more or less natural despite his long convalescence.

“Hey, there he is!” Garen yelled, catching everyone’s attention.  For a second, no one moved, and Obi-Wan was almost certain he was about to become the victim of a stampede.

It was Anakin who broke the silence, giving Obi-Wan a cheerful grin.  “Nah.  You’d lose.”

“Would you settle for a pathetic look, then?” Obi-Wan countered.  “I haven’t had tea in weeks.  Pity me.”

“What do you think, Healer?” Anakin, asked, glancing over at Abella.  “Is tea acceptable?”

Abella looked Obi-Wan up and down with a piercing gaze that was far too much like her Master’s.  “Hmm.  I don’t know…”

“Bella.  You.  Bald.  Initiates.  Want _tea_ ,” Obi-Wan growled at her.

She laughed and bounced off of the couch to hug him.  “Yes, you can, and it’s so good to see you better!” she squealed, sounding younger in that moment than she had in years. 

After that came a flurry of gentle embraces and kind words, almost too much for his brain to process, but it was enough to make him understand that he was welcome, and loved.  He wound up sitting next to Qui-Gon at the table, his head lying against Qui-Gon’s arm.  The only thing his body would tolerate aside from the tea was toast, but he drowsed his way through most of the meal, anyway.  His attention was focused on the warmth at his side, and the soft, deep voice that would sometimes respond to the ongoing conversation that the Lars family and their guests were having over breakfast. 

Obi-Wan occasionally came out of his semi-conscious state long enough to remember to drink the tea he’d threatened Abella for.  He grumbled at one point about the constant need for sleep, but the Chitanook Healer assured him that it would get better as the days passed.  He’d dozed off again before it occurred to him that she’d given him an answer without an explanation.

When the sounds of cleanup reached him, Obi-Wan tried to help, only to wind up guided to the couch, where he passed out again until after midday.  After more tea and a vile soup that Bella insisted he drink, he wandered outside.  For a short time, Obi-Wan was invigorated by the fresh air, and enjoyed the experience of sitting on the porch’s suspended swing next to his mate.  They talked about absolutely nothing of consequence, and sometime towards dusk Obi-Wan awoke from another nap that he’d taken with his head pillowed on Qui-Gon’s lap. 

Qui-Gon’s face was upturned, his features illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.  Obi-Wan spent a few happy moments staring up at the fantastic view. 

“There is an excellent hill behind the house for stargazing,” Qui-Gon said, apropos of nothing.  “Care to join me?”

The thought of stars captured his interest, and he climbed to his feet and made the barefooted trek around the house and up the rise.  The grass was cool, a gentle contrast to the warm breeze that teased his hair and brought the wonderful scent of clean earth and growing things.  By the time they’d settled down together, his head once gain resting in Qui-Gon’s lap, the first faint points of light were visible in the sky. 

The sense of effortless peace was familiar, but it wasn’t coming from the Force—at least, not directly.  This was Qui-Gon Jinn’s presence, wrapped around him and within him, a gift of the lifebond they’d created out of necessity and would keep out of desire.

He breathed in deeply and let his eyes drift shut.  As far as he was concerned, the peace of one was just as good as the other.

 

*          *          *          *

 

That first day out of bed set the pattern for the following week.  Obi-Wan’s intense desire to nod off every blasted moment wasn’t fading, but that was no surprise; even during his times awake he felt exhausted, and his thoughts stayed muddled.  Processing new information was a chore.

Garen left the second morning after breakfast, giving Obi-Wan a surprisingly gentle hug before leaving.  “I’m playing courier,” was his only explanation as to his departure.  Obi-Wan shrugged and decided that he didn’t want to know.

Obi-Wan had been banned from lifting even a finger to do anything, including making his own fucking tea.  He discovered this when Shmi neatly sabotaged his efforts and redirected him onto a different activity—sitting.  Abella, it seemed, had put the fear of the gods into his entire family.

“I won’t break,” Obi-Wan muttered rebelliously at her the next time she cornered him to check his vitals.  “Don’t you think you’ve taken this a little too far?”

“When you can stay awake for eight solid hours, then we’ll talk about your activity level,” Abella told him, snatching a datapad out of his hands when he tried to download the newsfeeds.  “And none of that yet, either,” she told him sternly.  “The galaxy will be just fine without you for a little while.”

Obi-Wan decided that Abella had gained far too many annoying habits from her Master.  “What am I supposed to be doing, then?” he asked, trying not to grind his teeth.  This was a sort of convalescence he had never endured, and he didn’t like it one damned bit.  Hearing her name a timeframe of wakefulness didn’t help; he could barely manage to keep his eyes open for three hours at a time. 

“Eating,” Abella said, bullying him into the kitchen where another container of her evil glop of a soup was waiting.  “You’ve lost far too much weight, and you need to start putting it back!”

He eyed the soup warily.  “If that is all you plan on feeding me, this may take a long time.”

Abella grinned at him, a predatory expression that showed off every single one of her sharp teeth.  “Crechemate mine, when you develop a real appetite, you can eat whatever you want.  In the meantime, my vile glop here will keep you alive.”

Frowning at her, vaguely disturbed by the thought that she was reading him far too well, he forced the soup down his throat and escaped outdoors.  Napping sounded fabulous in comparison to facing down an irate Healer who’d known him since they were both toddlers.

Anakin and Rillian were in the side yard, dueling each other under Qui-Gon’s watchful eye.  Obi-Wan felt a moment of intense relief to discover that their Padawans’ training hadn’t completely fallen apart because of his own nigh-useless state.   

He plopped down onto the grass and watched them dance, copper blade flashing against pale blue.  Rillian was holding her empty hand as if she wished she had another blade in it.  Anakin had noticed, and was introducing the concept of the Jar’Kai steps into their freeform duel.  Qui-Gon grinned as Rillian picked up on the pattern, growled at Anakin, and darted forward in a move that would have scored a mark across Anakin’s torso if the smaller boy hadn’t somersaulted out of the way.

“Excellent eye, Padawan,” Qui-Gon congratulated her, smiling.

“Definitely!” Anakin said as he picked himself up off of the ground.  “You’re a natural.  What do you think, Master?”

Momentarily surprised by the question, Obi-Wan took a minute to answer.  “I think that you need to remember that Rillian has longer arms than you do, Anakin.”

Anakin saluted him with the hilt of his lightsaber.  “Yeah.  She’s almost tagged me twice now.  I keep forgetting that I’m shorter and she’s taller instead of the other way around.”

[I would love to try it with both blades,] Rillian said, longing in her voice.  [When we go back to the Temple, I want to see that room when I build another lightsaber, even if you won’t let me choose my own crystals yet, Master.]

“You’ll like Kimal,” Anakin said, grinning.  “He tickles.”

“Alas, you have lost me the element of surprise,” Qui-Gon said, glancing at Obi-Wan with one eyebrow quirked.  “How ever will I torture my newest Padawan when she already knows all of my secrets?”

He decided to opt out on the chance for a witty retort, mostly because he was so brain-addled that he couldn’t think of one.  “Why can’t she try the Jar’Kai against Anakin now?  Among the four of us, we do have four lightsabers.”

The moment changed like a switch had been thrown, as everyone in the yard grew still.  “What?” Obi-Wan asked, baffled by the response.  One would think he’d just asked for the impossible, except…

Except…

He hadn’t seen his lightsaber, had he?  Hadn’t even given it a thought.  Hadn’t thought about much of anything, really, but this?  This was not right.  Not even remotely.

Qui-Gon answered his unspoken question, all regret and kindness in the face of his overwhelming oversight.  “When we found you in Palpatine’s apartment, your lightsaber was gone.  Maul’s was missing, also.  I’m sorry, Obi-Wan.”

It was like a punch to the gut, ice and fire, and when he curled in on himself Anakin was there, putting his arms around Obi-Wan’s shoulders.  All three of them surrounded him, filling his senses with their presence, just as they had been all along.  They’d merely been discreet about it, or he’d been oblivious.  Perhaps both. 

The memory caught in his thoughts and stuck like a recording trapped on repeat:  _You carry the crystals from his second lightsaber._

“Carry,” he murmured.

[Carry what?  You?] Rillian asked in a quick bark of confusion.

He shook his head, trying to force the words, to be clear and concise before someone decided he was having a fit.  “Ulic said…carry.  Not carried.  Carry.”

Qui-Gon said something; Anakin replied.  Obi-Wan was busy trying to figure out _why_ the tense of the word mattered.  If Palpatine had his lightsaber, then the crystals were gone.  Carried, not carry.

Ulic Qel-Droma was dead, not foolish. 

He took a deep breath, but when he let it out, his shout was mental instead of physical.  _BELLA!_

She arrived in moments, a flutter of maroon robes and brown fur.  “What?  What’s wrong, what happened?”

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I’m deaf now,” Anakin said, rubbing his forehead with one hand.  Rillian looked like someone had struck her on the back of the head with a rock.  Only Qui-Gon seemed unaffected, but then, Qui-Gon had actually lived through Obi-Wan’s volume control issues during their first years together.

“Bella, what are you drugging me with?  The pain killers, you said you were still giving me those,” Obi-Wan clarified, when she didn’t answer quickly enough. 

“It’s a liquid, nyhalitium diophoside.  I’ve been dosing you with it in the soup to be sure you’re taking it with food,” Abella explained.   

 _Smart choice,_ Obi-Wan thought.  If he’d been handed pills to take on his own, he would likely have thrown them away instead.  “Stop.  Stop giving it to me,” he said, trying to put the steel he felt into his words and probably failing.  “In fact, considering how I’ve felt this week, never give it to me again.”

“Obi-Wan—” she began, and he could feel Qui-Gon gearing up for an argument as well, but he cut them off.

“Please!  I can’t _think!_   I can’t remember why things are important and some mornings it’s taking me five minutes to figure out how to put on my fucking pants!”  He calmed himself back down by sheer force of will.  “I’ve been dreaming the same thing every night and can’t remember it when I wake up in the morning, and I _have to remember._ ”  Carry, not carried.  _Carry._

“I seem to recall saying that the galaxy could live without you for a little while,” Abella said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

He managed a shaky laugh.  “Bella, I think this has less to do with the galaxy and more to do with me not losing my mind.”

Qui-Gon sighed, whether in agreement or frustration, Obi-Wan couldn’t tell.  “Abella, how long would it take?”

Abella shook her head.  “Master Qui-Gon, he’s been on it for weeks.”

“Three days,” Obi-Wan proposed.  That was a good round number for most withdrawal sessions, if you were willing to suffer a bit to get it done with.

“Oh, hells no,” Abella gasped, horrified.  “Not without chancing another round of heart failure, you idiot!  No less than five days, and you’re still going to want my head on a plate when it’s done.  Seven days.  Really, a full ten-day would be best.”

 _Another round of heart failure?_ Obi-Wan wondered, and then decided to worry about that later.  “Five days.”

Abella made a frustrated noise.  “Is that safe?” Anakin asked, sounding worried.

“Yes, but it’s not a good idea,” Abella said at last, and he could tell she didn’t like admitting it.

“Five days, or I throw out your soup and stop taking it all at once,” Obi-Wan ground out, annoyed.

Abella rolled her eyes.  “Fine!” she snapped.  “If you want to suffer that badly, be my guest.”  She stalked off, visibly fuming.

Anakin grinned at Rillian and elbowed her.  “And that last bit is why we called him ‘The Negotiator,’” he said.

Obi-Wan glared at him.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Those five days were complete hell.  When Obi-Wan wasn’t dripping sweat and dreaming about ice baths and snow, he was shaking himself to pieces with chills and trying to hide under every blanket in the house.  Nausea was his new, unwelcome friend, and they battled each other every morning as Obi-Wan tried to make sure the contents of his stomach stayed where they belonged.  The pain slowly ramped up, which gave him time to adjust and made him glad that he’d not actually thrown out the soup.

“Should it still hurt this much?” he asked Abella on the third morning, grateful he was clear-headed enough to be able to ask the question _and_ focus on the answer.

“That’s part of the reason we kept you drugged for so long,” she said.  “Take off your shirt and hold still.”

Obi-Wan grinned.  “You just want to see me topless.”

Abella raised an eyebrow as he shed his tunic.  “Obi, you don’t have anywhere near enough fur to tempt me.”

He watched and tried not to wince away as she rubbed a clear ointment into the angry red scar that now decorated his abdomen.  “I just don’t remember it taking this long to heal from lightsaber injuries.”

“Generally, no, not even with the internal damage you suffered,” she said, laying her hand over the scar.  The skin underneath her palm grew warm as she touched the healing wound with the Force.  When she lifted her hand away, no hint of the ointment remained, and the red had faded back somewhat.  He’d been appalled to discover that she’d been working to reduce the scar tissue since they’d left Naboo.  After almost a month of Force-healing, there should have been only a faint trace of the damage.  

“When Palpatine ripped through all of our healing to reopen the wound, he used Darkness to do it, Obi-Wan.  Everything we did before—it doesn’t work, now.  Your healing is progressing at an even slower pace than a healthy human can manage.  Which is why,” Abella jabbed him in the chest with one furry finger, “I need you to trust me.  If you push too far, too fast, you’ll never get off the disabled list.”

In spite of his misery, he did notice something else out of the ordinary.  As he hovered over his tea and Owen made fun of the green cast to his skin as only a nine-year-old could, Obi-Wan saw that he wasn’t the only one who was finding mornings difficult of late.  Shmi seemed paler than usual, and was eating about as much as he was.  However, since he was the center of attention (horrible thought) no one really noticed her plight.

Their eyes met across the table, and he raised a questioning eyebrow at her while everyone else was distracted by Cliegg, Rillian, and Anakin arriving with platters bearing breakfast.

Shmi nodded once, smiled, and glanced at Cliegg, then Anakin.

 _Oh._   _OH._

Obi-Wan wanted to use the Force, investigate, but his control was too shaky.  Best not to frighten the wits out of the new life developing in his stepmother’s womb.  Instead, he ducked his head and hid a grin with his tea mug as the morning’s conversations began in earnest.  His family was going to short-circuit when she told them.

Anakin, meanwhile, had used their time on Kaazcint to locate new coverings for C-3PO, replacing the dinged-up grey ones he’d pilfered from the Temple discard piles when they’d first come to Coruscant.  Threepio spent a full five minutes espousing his happiness with his new silver coverings, which were, in his words, “far superior” to the old ones.

“Beats being naked, I suppose,” Obi-Wan said from beneath his pile of blankets.  It was taking all of his willpower to keep from making Goldenrod cracks, and the droid wasn’t even the _right color_.

Threepio turned his head and looked at him, confusion in every line of his metal body.  “What do you mean, naked?” he asked, whereupon Anakin lost it and laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

The afternoon of the fifth day, Obi-Wan was done with the sweats, chills, and nausea, and was instead contending with a massive headache.  The mental symptoms had hit, too, so instead of inflicting his riotous temper and fluctuating emotions on the household, he’d sequestered himself away in the study with a datapad.  Abella had threatened him with castration if he went anywhere near the news feeds, but that wasn’t what he was interested in at the moment. 

Qui-Gon found him after he’d exhausted every relevant source he could find on the Neti species.  By that time, he was so frustrated that he was lying on the floor with the powered-down datapad balanced over his eyes. 

“You must have gotten all of your technical skill from your mother, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said.  “Your father doesn’t know a hydrospanner from a static drill.”

The unexpected comment made Obi-Wan laugh, which hurt, but he was learning to ignore the little twinges.  He tossed the datapad aside to stare up at his mate.  Qui-Gon had rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows, and his hair, instead of the customary partial tail, was pulled back into a single knot.  Grease decorated his bare skin and darkened his fingernails.  

“Taking a turn at farming, my Master?”

Qui-Gon smiled and sat down next to him, stretching his long legs and dropping his head back with a sigh.  “Farming is easy, dear former Padawan.  Making that autoplow see sense is going to take Anakin’s level of genius.  When I gave up and left, the only thing I could see of your Padawan was his hair.  By the way, I have discovered that Anakin learned all of his foul language from you.”

Obi-Wan grinned.  “Tatooine and the Mandalorians might have had a bit of an influence there, as well.”

“True enough,” Qui-Gon agreed, glancing at the abandoned datapad.  “What were you up to?”

“Research.  Very frustrating research.  What do you know about the Neti, Qui?”

“Not much, probably no more than you’ve already discovered,” Qui-Gon said, sitting up properly and calling the datapad to his hand.  “They’re all born Force-sensitive, like Mace’s people.  Very rare species, plant-based life form, photosynthesis and water for nutrition, capable of shape-shifting, with sizes ranging from two meters to six meters.  If it weren’t for Master T’ra Saa’s presence in the Order, they’d likely be considered a myth.”

“Lifespan of approximately three thousand years, capable of a variant of Force-based hibernation, and supposedly can survive almost indefinitely in hibernation as long as they have access to sunlight and water.” Obi-Wan sighed.  “That’s about the end of anything useful.”

“What were you looking for, then?” Qui-Gon asked, turning on the datapad.  He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the header.  “Just when I thought I’d seen everything, we have people dressing up as Neti for the purpose of sexual stimulation.”

Obi-Wan tried hard not to laugh at the slightly perplexed look on Qui-Gon’s face.  “Galactic search engines bring up interesting things, sometimes.  I quit when I found the porn.” 

He rolled over and sat up, stretching his arms in a slow, careful way so that he could ease the kinks in his back without hurting himself.  “I was trying to find out if it was possible for a Neti to live to be over five thousand years old, but that hibernation trance is the closest answer I’ve found.  And if the Neti in question _is_ in a hibernation trance, the chances of finding him are slim.  They blend in, become part of the background of the Force, and seem just like any other bit of plant life you could encounter on dozens of worlds.”

“You’re looking for someone in particular, then,” Qui-Gon said, shutting the datapad down again after wiping the search history.  Neither of them wanted Owen to stumble upon that sort of entry.  The boy would use the Galactic datanet to corrupt himself soon enough without their help.

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Either I’ve finally cracked and lost my mind, or, I’m looking for a dead Jedi Master.  Who, as it turns out, is not so dead, after all.”  He told Qui-Gon about the dream he’d had, the one that kept repeating itself in bits and pieces as he slept.  He still didn’t have all of it, but enough of the memory had resurfaced that he knew who he was looking for. 

“Ood Bnar.”  Qui-Gon was frowning, his fingers tracing the grooved pattern of the keypad as he contemplated the matter.  Obi-Wan was bemused and a little awed that Qui-Gon believed him without question; what had happened could have been a fever dream, a weird reaction to the drugs he’d been on at the time.  “I have to admit, it sounds almost too impossible to be true.”

“Considering that the oldest member of the Order is…what, twelve hundred?” Obi-Wan guessed.  He’d left the tracking of such things to others a long time ago.  Some days it had been difficult to keep up with his own birthday, let alone anyone else’s.

“That would have been Master Kva Th, but he died last week,” Qui-Gon said, shaking his head.  “Old age,” he added, when Obi-Wan would have asked.  “No hidden plots, there.  It was his time.  Yoda is the oldest of us, now.”

Just as it was before, then.  At least this was territory he knew.

Qui-Gon smiled at him when Obi-Wan was caught unawares by a jaw-cracking yawn.  “Time to go back to bed, love.”

“Fuck,” Obi-Wan muttered.  He was heartily sick of napping all the time.

“Eventually,” Qui-Gon said in a bland tone, managing a perfectly innocuous expression.

At dawn on the sixth day, Obi-Wan found himself wide awake, blinking in the dim light of their bedroom.  Apparently, now that he was off of the meds, his body was going to attempt to reset his biological clock. 

 _Ah, well,_ he thought, sitting up in bed and yawning.  There were far more offensive times his body could have chosen to wake him.

Qui-Gon was still asleep, so Obi-Wan dressed in the dark and headed with quiet steps, making sure the door shut without noise as he left.  He felt almost, _almost_ normal, despite the pain that dogged his steps.  He could live with pain.  Pain was nothing. 

Not knowing—that was what could drive him absolutely mental.  Carry, not carried.

He settled down on the rise behind the house, telling his body and mind in no uncertain terms that he was fucking well going to meditate, fuzzy thoughts and aching insides be damned.  He looked up at the sky, where a few last stars fought the rising light to keep their place in the sky. 

 _Please, let me be able to do this,_ Obi-Wan whispered, a prayer to the Force.  _Please speak to me._

He closed his eyes, breathed out, and began the steps of meditation, a path he’d known for most of his life. 

_Carry, not carried._

 

*          *          *          *

 

Waking up to an empty bed was such an unusual experience of late that for a moment Qui-Gon panicked.  _No—there._  

Obi-Wan was close by, his presence in the bond muted by meditation.  It wasn’t a peaceful one; Obi-Wan’s place in the Force seemed jagged.  That was an improvement over the past few weeks, though, and Qui-Gon was well-versed in seeing the good side of any situation.

The panic faded, became something approaching excitement.  Yesterday’s conversation, if near mind-blowing in its implications, had given him plenty of evidence of Obi-Wan’s mental state.  He was still cautious in his hope, though; Qui-Gon had the feeling that the full impact of the events on Naboo had yet to really strike Obi-Wan.  What would happen then, he had no idea. 

In the meantime, he was simply going to continue as he had been, and provide the support that his mate needed—and really, a week of Obi-Wan curling up next to Qui-Gon, embracing him or touching him without a care for whoever might be watching was enough to put a large, foolish smile on Qui-Gon’s face.

Qui-Gon was half-dressed when Obi-Wan burst back into their bedroom, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving.  His hand was clamped down, white-knuckled, on his stomach, as if he’d just attempted running for the first time. 

“Where’re my boots?” Obi-Wan demanded, and for a moment the question floored Qui-Gon, unexpected as it was.  He’d realized during their time on Kaazcint two years ago that Obi-Wan, when off-duty and comfortable, liked to pretend shoes didn’t exist.  Shmi and Anakin had the same tendency, a holdover from living on Tatooine.  There was no going barefoot on hot desert sand, not if you valued the soles of your feet.

“Under the bed, where they’ve been since we arrived,” Qui-Gon answered, shoving his arms into his shirtsleeves and pulling the shirt over his head as quickly as possible, just in case he was about to follow his mate on some mad dash across the farm.  “What’s wrong?”

Obi-Wan dove toward the floor on his side of the bed and scrambled half-underneath the bed frame with a startled, pained curse.  When he emerged, dragging his boots in both hands, he looked close to frantic. 

“Carry, not carried,” Obi-Wan said, the same phrase he’d been repeating under his breath for the past few days.  Then he lifted one boot, turned it upside down, and caught three tiny objects that came tumbling out to land on the palm of his upturned hand.  Qui-Gon knew exactly what they were—Obi-Wan’s lightsaber crystals.

“Force, how did you manage that?” he asked, as Obi-Wan clenched the tiny stones in his fist, closing his eyes.  The panic had faded from his mate’s face, leaving intense relief in its wake.

“Spur of the moment,” Obi-Wan answered cryptically, pressing his clenched fist to his forehead.  “Force bless the fact that I’m not a complete idiot,” he whispered.  Then he picked up his other boot, passing it to Qui-Gon.  “Dump it, too,” he said.  “But don’t touch them.”

Qui-Gon paused, then tilted the boot and dumped its contents onto the floor instead of catching them.  Four tiny objects fell onto the soft carpeting.  The blood-red stones landed as if they were much heavier than they could possibly be, not even bouncing upon landing. 

Maul’s lightsaber crystals.

The sudden spate of activity and flurry of emotions that accompanied it were enough to attract the attention of every Force-sensitive in the household; when Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon entered the kitchen, Abella, Rillian, and Shmi were waiting for them.  Shmi was already making tea, looking as if she’d slept badly.

Abella glared at Obi-Wan as he sat down gingerly at the table, his hand still clutching his side.  “You tried running, didn’t you?”

“I thought I succeeded rather well, thank you,” Obi-Wan retorted, but there was no heat to his words.  He winced as his weight settled.  “Don’t worry, Bella.  I won’t be trying that again anytime soon.  I just…had a moment.  And I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, when the Healer-Elect placed a hand on his abdomen. 

“I’ll say,” Anakin said, blinking like he was still trying to wake up.  He was looking at the trio of blue crystals resting on the table in front of Obi-Wan.  Rillian was unwrapping the cloth bundle that contained the other crystals.

“Don’t touch those, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said softly.

[Hadn’t planned on it, Master,] she answered, with a growl of distaste at the red stones.  [They feel nasty.]

“How did you manage to nab them all?” Anakin asked, as Shmi joined them with the teapot.  Qui-Gon poured tea into Obi-Wan’s waiting mug, noticing that his mate’s hands were shaking.  This was no time to add burns to their list of concerns. 

He filled his own cup, then Shmi’s, who smiled in thanks.  Anakin swiped the tea pot next, adding enough sugar to his cup to fuel an entire creche.  Rillian declined, as usual, retrieving a glass of ice water instead.  It was still strange to have a Padawan who despised tea. 

“I didn’t realize how bad the damage to my shielding was until this morning, so I apologize for anything that slipped through,” Obi-Wan began, stirring his tea with an utter lack of interest. 

“Nothing terrible,” Abella said, smiling.  “I learned your opinion of my soup-making ability.”

“I learned new vocabulary,” Shmi added dryly.

Rillian tilted her head at Anakin’s mother.  [How sensitive _are_ you, Shmi?]

“According to the blood tests, enough to have trained at the Temple, had I not been a slave,” Shmi said, shrugging.  “But my life is what it is, and I’m here now without complaint.” 

Qui-Gon hadn’t realized that before, hadn’t even thought to ask.  It made sense, though, and explained why the Council and Temple staff hadn’t batted an eye at Shmi living and working in the Temple for the two years prior to her marriage.

Obi-Wan dropped his gaze to his crystals while they waited for him to continue.  It took a moment; Qui-Gon could feel Obi-Wan’s internal battle to compose himself.  He reached under the table and took Obi-Wan’s hand, glad when Obi-Wan squeezed his fingers in acknowledgement and appreciation.

“It wasn’t even a fight that day,” Obi-Wan said, diving right into the explanation.  “Palpatine ripped through my shields like they didn’t exist.  It… hurt,” he said, a blatant understatement if Qui-Gon had ever heard one. 

Shmi seemed confused.  “I know I picked up certain terms in the Temple, but what does it mean, if someone does that to you?  I always thought the Jedi were speaking in terms of figurative constructs when talking about shielding.”

Anakin took over, frowning as he tried his best to explain.  “Mental shields are something everyone has naturally.  Well, unless you’re a Xithxth.  They’ve got no natural shielding to speak of and yammer at each other mentally all the time.  Anyway, everyone develops shielding in response to mental stimuli as they grow older, even if you’re not Force-sensitive.  It just seems to be a facet of how the mind works, but no one is really certain why.  But for Jedi, shielding keeps things out, and also keeps us from overhearing everyone’s public thoughts all the time.  The stronger you are in the Force, the more important your shielding becomes.”

“Some people just broadcast without realizing it, and such thoughts are usually mundane.  Things one wants to keep to oneself, subconscious ideas, desires—those stay under an individual’s shielding, for the most part,” Qui-Gon added, when Shmi seemed concerned about the idea of overhearing thoughts.  “You are very quiet, by the way.  As a young Force-sensitive alone, you must have figured out the knack of keeping things to yourself, _and_ keeping others out.”  Shmi nodded slowly in response, as if she remembered something that resonated with her memories of a slave’s childhood.

“Jedi shielding is built upon natural shielding, and it kind of is a figurative construct,” Anakin continued, sounding as if he liked the idea.  “We imagine it in our heads, but what we imagine, we’re actually building around ourselves with the Force.  It becomes a part of us, even if it isn’t physically present.  The stronger the shielding, the stronger the attack necessary to break it.”

Shmi’s eyes grew wide.  “So, then what this Sith Lord did was—”

“Rape.  Mental rape,” Obi-Wan finished for her, nodding.  His eyes were stormcloud gray, and he gripped Qui-Gon’s hand with fierce intensity.  “Which is, impossible as it sounds, far worse than physical rape.  When your body is being physically abused, your mind can still be your refuge.  When it’s mental, there’s no place to go, no escape from it.”

Anakin’s mother gave Obi-Wan a sad, gentle smile.  “How old were you the first time you were raped?” 

“Fourteen,” Obi-Wan said as he looked up at her, and he didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the question. 

Qui-Gon frowned.  He could think of only one time during Obi-Wan’s fourteenth year when such a thing could have happened, but now was not the time to ask about it. 

“And you?” Obi-Wan asked Shmi.

“I was twelve,” she answered, her mouth a thin, grim line.  “It was a common thing for young slaves.  You learn to recognize the signs in others.”

“Mom,” Anakin whispered, looking heartbroken.

Shmi reached out and wrapped her arm around Anakin’s shoulders.  “I’m sorry, Ani.  There are some things a mother does not generally share with her child.  They are not memories I like, but this is a hard conversation with harsh truths to face.  I will not let my stepson be alone in this.”

The grimness of Obi-Wan’s expression was broken by a small, unsteady smile.  “That’s still weird,” he said, “thinking of us that way.” 

Then he swallowed, turned green, and hurriedly drank half of his cooling tea.  “Sorry,” Obi-Wan apologized, looking physically uncomfortable.  “Already threw up once this morning.  Would prefer not to repeat the experience.  Hurts too much.”

Rillian, sensing that it was perhaps time to move things along, spoke up.  [What happened next, Master Obi-Wan?]

“Palpatine destroyed the block.”  Obi-Wan said, and then hesitated.  “I know that sounds like I find it unimportant, but all those memories—they seem distant to me, and I can’t remember what that moment felt like.  I suppose one day soon it will all hit me, but for now I just feel…detached.  Like it happened to someone else, or it happened so long ago that it’s inconsequential.”

Qui-Gon and Anakin exchanged worried glances.  That sort of disassociation was one of the things that Terza and the twins had been concerned about. 

“I hate having to interrupt again,” Shmi said apologetically.  “This block—it’s the one you talked about before, yes?  The memories that no one could access?”  Obi-Wan nodded.  “What’s so special about them, Obi-Wan?” she asked.

“I did something monumentally stupid, something not easily corrected.  Almost did myself in,” Obi-Wan said, his gaze dropping back down to the tabletop.  “Either way, I now have memories that I did not have before.”

“And you, Ani?” Shmi asked, looking at her son.  “Do you have memories now that you didn’t have before?  Have I lost my little boy?”

“No!” Anakin protested immediately, looking shocked.  “You haven’t lost me.  I’m just—uh—different.”

[I’ll say,] Rillian said with an amused snort of laughter. 

“I guess it was sort of noticeable, huh?” Anakin said, looking sheepish. 

Shmi smiled.  “I noticed, yes.  I didn’t think it was entirely because you became a Jedi Padawan.  I knew this day would come, Ani.  Don’t think I love you any less because you’re a bit older on the inside than on the outside.  I’ve had to think of Obi-Wan that way for years, remember?”

Anakin blinked and looked at Obi-Wan, while Qui-Gon tried not to smile at his bewildered expression.  “Oh.  Yeah.  I guess you’re right.”

Abella grabbed Obi-Wan’s wrist and frowned.  “I think we’re going to cut this short, folks.  I don’t like the way you’re feeling right now, Obi.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “Wait.  Just—I’m almost done.  Let me finish?” he asked her, pleading in his voice.  Abella bit her lip, hesitated, and nodded. 

 “I realized that I had a split-second to make a decision,” Obi-Wan said, and his eyes unfocused as he remembered that moment.  “I could keep fighting a losing battle, or I could…”  He trailed off, as if considering his words.  “After the block fell apart, Sidious wasn’t expecting any resistance.  It was a pathetic excuse at fighting back, but it gave me one moment to act without his notice.  I broke the brackets that held all of the crystals in place in Maul’s lightsaber and my own, making sure the crystals ended up in my boots.”  His jaw visibly clenched.  “I didn’t think he’d actually take the lightsabers.  I just wanted—if something went wrong, I wanted there to be two less weapons available for my hands.”

Qui-Gon’s heart froze in his chest as the implications inherent in his mate’s words sank in.  “Obi-Wan, you can’t think that.”

“Can’t I?” Obi-Wan whispered, turning to look at Qui-Gon, his eyes flashing with anger.  “You’ve seen—you’ve _seen_ what he can do.  Do you really think I should have taken that chance, especially once he had full access to my mind?”  Obi-Wan closed his eyes and shuddered.  “I have no idea if he’s left any surprises in my head or not; he certainly had plenty of opportunity.”

Qui-Gon thought of the black wall that had blocked his end of the lifebond during Palpatine’s attack on Obi-Wan.  “I don’t think you need to worry about that,” he said, shaking his head in realization.  “Sidious had something far worse in mind.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

To Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan seemed both better and worse after that early morning conversation.  He was less distant than before, more emotionally invested in what was going on.  At the same time, though, the return of his awareness had led to the return of the nightmares, which was no fun for either of them. 

They were lying awake together with the sheets to the bed kicked off, dripping with sweat after they had both shared in one of Obi-Wan’s nightmares of his time in Palpatine’s residence.  Qui-Gon had lit a candle and opened a window.  The cool breeze blowing in from outside felt like a dose of paradise; the flickering candle flame soothed his mind, accustomed as he was to candle-lit meditation.   

“I have to admit, this is one function of the bond that I hadn’t expected,” Qui-Gon said ruefully, after the silence had stretched on longer than he liked.  He was lying on his side, gazing at Obi-Wan, who was flat on his back, watching the shadows from the candle flame dance across the ceiling. 

“Mm.  I’ve been getting yours, too,” Obi-Wan replied.  “The other night you were dreaming about Ord Mantell, Os Balog, and the river.  It’s odd seeing yourself drown from someone else’s point of view, especially since you shouldn’t even have those memories.”

 _Time to fess up, old man,_ Qui-Gon thought to himself, and couldn’t help smiling a little.  “I’ve been dreaming of you in that way for a long time now.  Ever since Taro Tre.”

“You’ve been—what?  This whole time?” Obi-Wan turned his head to give Qui-Gon a baffled look.  “Why not say something?  Or is this like the midichlorian count, and you needed something to be secretive about?”  Qui-Gon was glad to see the teasing light in Obi-Wan’s eyes.  His mate’s sense of humor had been almost nonexistent of late.

“It took me until Yinchorri to realize that it _was_ you,” Qui-Gon admitted.  “I was always dreaming of your last years on Tatooine.  Despite knowing that you’d lived there, I never fathomed that this white-haired old man, who looked to be hitting his eighth decade, could be my young Padawan-turned-partner.”  He smiled again.  “Afterwards, it was a way to learn of you, the life you lived, without pestering you with questions that you couldn’t answer.  There wasn’t much learning to be done, though.  Anytime I was present, we spent most of our time arguing.”

Obi-Wan laughed softly.  “We did that a lot, didn’t we?”  He sighed.  “It’s so weird, realizing that you’ve seen my life.  Though I have to admit, discovering that you remember these things from your own point of view is bloody fascinating.  I wonder if it’s just subconscious inversion, or…”

“Or something deeper?”  Qui-Gon shook his head.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never been able to recall any memory of that time while conscious unless I’d dreamed of it first.  You, Anakin, and Sidious are the only three who remember things that way.”  He wished, then, that he hadn’t mentioned Sidious; Obi-Wan’s expression became far too troubled.   

“Qui?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I did the right thing?”

He didn’t need to consider his answer for very long.  He’d had plenty of time, lately, to think about what he’d witnessed.  “I believe that you did the best things possible, given the adversity that you faced,” Qui-Gon said, reaching over to take Obi-Wan’s hand in his own.  “Sometimes there is no right or wrong, merely lighter and darker shades of gray.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “That sounds like a patented Master Jinn response.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Qui-Gon pointed out, amused to think of his words as patented anything.

“I know.”  Obi-Wan was quiet for a time.  Qui-Gon sensed that he was considering his words with care and waited, counting their breaths to pass the time. 

He had almost fallen into a light trance before Obi-Wan spoke again.  “I’m afraid to remember.”

“Considering what your subconscious does to us in our sleep, I’m not surprised by that,” Qui-Gon replied, his voice wry.  “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

Obi-Wan grimaced.  “There is if it’s crippling your ability to function, and this is, Qui.  It really is.  I have the memories of that place now, of—of Venge,” he said, plowing forward.  “It all still feels distant, unless I’m dreaming,” he added sourly.  “But consciously, I just…I don’t want to go near them.  I don’t want to face what’s there.  I know I’ll have to, eventually, that I’ll have to face down the memories and the emotions attached to that place and time.  But right now, that thought makes me want to hide under this bed and never come out.”

“You’d be very dusty,” Qui-Gon observed, keeping his tone light.  Obi-Wan needed to talk about this, yes, but Qui-Gon didn’t want Obi-Wan to mentally drown in the process.

He was rewarded for his effort with a faint smile.  “I just don’t understand why you’re not angry about this,” Obi-Wan whispered, rolling over onto his side to face Qui-Gon.  “Micah said once that you were enraged by Xanatos turning.  I think I went a few steps beyond him, here.”

“I _am_ angry,” Qui-Gon said, cradling Obi-Wan’s face with both of his hands before Obi-Wan could react to his words.  “But at Sidious, for what he did to you, to Anakin, to all of us.  You may have gone after Palpatine with anger in your heart, but you stayed in that place out of love for Anakin.  Maybe it was the wrong choice, but your intent was pure.  And even then,” he insisted, as Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in surprise, “When utterly in Palpatine’s thrall, you refused to follow the Dark path.  Not once, my love, but _twice_ you made that choice, no matter how hard the decision was, or what the cost was to you.” 

Qui-Gon pressed a kiss to Obi-Wan’s forehead.  “And I have no way to thank Xan for what he did to help you.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze was sad when their eyes met again.  “Did you love him?  I never asked before, but I thought…how could you not?”

“I did love him,” Qui-Gon said, because it was the truth, and Obi-Wan deserved nothing less.  “But I never acted upon it.  Xanatos needed me to be both a lover and a father figure, and that was not something I was capable of giving him.  I don’t know who’s more responsible for that in him—me for not being able to redirect that longing, or Xan for not being able to overcome it.”

“Or Crion of Telos, for being an absolutely worthless excuse for a father?”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “That, too.  But I will tell you this, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and mean it with all of my heart:  What I felt for Xan is nothing compared to the love I have for you.”

“That’s good, Qui, because that father figure-lover thing?  Is kind of creepy,” Obi-Wan said, grinning, and Qui-Gon laughed just before Obi-Wan leaned forward and kissed him.

It was the first time their lips had touched since Naboo, and it was soothing and wonderful, and ignited a slow burn in Qui-Gon’s body that he felt like he’d been months without. 

When the kiss ended, Qui-Gon opened his eyes to discover Obi-Wan’s pupils were blown, his lips were half-parted, and he was possibly missing a few brain cells.  “Obi-Wan?”

“Mm,” Obi-Wan replied, blinking a few times.  “My body hasn’t been remotely interested in any such thing up until about two seconds ago,” he said, and smiled.

“So I see,” Qui-Gon said, reaching down to grab hold of the evidence of Obi-Wan’s interest, blatantly noticeable with only a pair of thin, sweat-soaked sleeping pants in the way.

Obi-Wan’s eyes rolled back.  “We—are going to get—in _so_ much trouble.”

The desperate, breathy quality to Obi-Wan’s voice made Qui-Gon purr in reaction.  “Do you want me to stop?”  He hesitated, thinking of the long road of recovery still ahead of his mate.  “Do you _need_ me to stop?”

“I will kick your ass if you do,” Obi-Wan threatened, which wasn’t very threatening considering Qui-Gon was in the midst of turning Obi-Wan into a puddle. 

“If we do anything that hurts you, we’re stopping,” Qui-Gon warned him, and then winced in joyful agony as Obi-Wan’s hand slithered past the waistband of his own pants and gripped his developing erection with firm, expert fingers.

“Shut up and keep touching me,” Obi-Wan growled.  “Better yet, take off those damn pants, _then_ keep touching me.”

He was all too willing to comply, though slithering out of wet cotton was not easy and required swearing.  Obi-Wan had an easier time, but that was something that made his heart ache.  His mate still had a long way to go to regain the weight he’d lost.  Qui-Gon followed the still-clear line of Obi-Wan’s ribs downwards, and found himself staring at the lightsaber scar that had almost destroyed both their lives.

“Don’t do that,” Obi-Wan said, reaching up to wrap his hands around the back of Qui-Gon’s neck.  “Look at me,” he whispered.  “I won’t break.”

Qui-Gon gazed into the blue-green depths of Obi-Wan’s eyes.  He’d meant it; no potential with Xanatos had ever felt anything like this.  “I might,” he whispered back.

Obi-Wan smiled.  “I’ll catch you.”

It was, by necessity, slow, but he didn’t mind that at all.  In fact, slow was damned near perfection.  They rocked together, kissing and using hands and senses to reacquaint themselves after too long apart.  Qui-Gon was delighted to discover that yes, nibbling on that particular patch of collarbone did indeed make Obi-Wan incoherent.  When Obi-Wan, in reaction, pulled on fistfuls of Qui-Gon’s hair, the almost-pain of it combined with the intensity of the friction against his cock left him trembling.

“Now that, I like,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“That’s new for me, too,” Qui-Gon said, and groaned when Obi-Wan tugged on his hair again as he thrust up against him. 

“Oh, gods, I can feel that,” Obi-Wan sighed, his eyes going half-lidded with pleasure.  “I can feel _you_.”

Qui-Gon shut his eyes and realized it as well.  The bond was like a line of fire between them.  He could feel every echo of his own skin against his mate, just like he could feel Obi-Wan pressed against every line of his body, and it was _ecstasy._  

They kissed again, and the heat of it was searing, and slow was no longer even remotely acceptable.  “Ah, fuck, _please,_ ” Obi-Wan moaned, thrusting harder against him.

His teeth were aching, the need for release was pressing on him so badly.  Qui-Gon reached down between them, found the slickness of pre-cum and squeezed their cocks together in his hand.

Obi-Wan shuddered beneath him, and the echo of sensation that came back to him through the bond was almost enough to take Qui-Gon over the edge right then.  Obi-Wan’s hand clamped down on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, his teeth bared, his head thrown back against the pillow as they both tried to thrust together one last time—

Obi-Wan stuttered to a halt, releasing a strangled cry.  Warmth drenched his hand and then that echo, that wonderful, tingling, blood-rushing echo doused his mind.  Qui-Gon followed him over a white-hot ledge, fire that consumed everything.

Qui-Gon came back to himself gradually, discovered that his eyes were wet and Obi-Wan was running relaxed fingers through his hair.  He was using Obi-Wan’s body as a pillow, with his head tucked against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. 

“Hmm?”

“Fuh,” Obi-Wan replied.

Content with the answer, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and drifted, feeling sated and exhilarated and smug and just a little bit sad, though he couldn’t even begin to fathom why.   

“We should probably get up and clean off at some point,” Obi-Wan suggested after a while.

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, considering the matter.  He didn’t particularly want to move.  Ever.  “Probably.”

“That didn’t hurt in the slightest, by the way.  I think I love bond-sex,” Obi-Wan said, a smile in his voice.

“I just love _you_ ,” Qui-Gon said, moving just enough to find Obi-Wan’s hand and twine their fingers together.  He was grateful that they hadn’t disturbed Obi-Wan’s injury, but it was curious, too; he wondered if the Force had granted them the opportunity to pursue the intimacy they’d both sorely needed.

“That, too,” Obi-Wan said, his words followed by the feel of a kiss being pressed against Qui-Gon’s hair.  “I love you, Qui-Gon Jinn.  I want to marry you and raise a bunch of unruly, Council-baiting Padawans with you.”

He lifted his head in surprise, and found Obi-Wan smiling at him.  “Aren’t we already married?”

“We’re bonded, not married.  Legally, there’s a difference,” Obi-Wan drawled.  “And Anakin was right; my parents would like something tangible.  Shmi is dropping hints that I need to provide her with a son-in-law.”

Qui-Gon blinked.  “I’m twenty years older than she is.  That’s _weird,_ ” he said, and Obi-Wan chuckled.

“What do you think?  Do you think you could tolerate being spiritually and legally bound to me, Qui-Gon Jinn?” Obi-Wan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You mean with a ceremony, probably in the temple where your parents were married?  Standing in front of a crowd of virtual strangers, officiated over by that serious old man?  Cake and dancing afterward?  You’re asking me to marry you, then?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice mild.

Obi-Wan nodded, his eyes dancing.  “Something like that, yes.”

“Hmm.  I’ll have to think about it,” Qui-Gon said, and put his head back down.

“Take your time, why don’t you?” Obi-Wan suggested dryly.

He rolled off of Obi-Wan and sat up, staring down at Obi-Wan with the most serious expression he could manage—not easy, when all he wanted to do was grin like a madman.  “Obi-Wan, I’ve seen you love me through the worst that I could ever face.  You loved me no matter what, even when I made some potentially idiotic decisions.  I would marry you a hundred times, would suffer damn near anything to share this bond with you.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were alight with joy.  “So that’s a yes, then?”

Qui-Gon smiled.  “Something like that.”

                         

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan sat up in bed, stretched, winced, and realized he was still mostly asleep as he pried his eyes open and peered around the room.  Dawn again.  Blast it.

“You’re awake?”  Qui-Gon wrapped an arm around his waist, nuzzling Obi-Wan’s bare hip with his nose.  They never had bothered with the pants again.  “Something wrong?”

Obi-Wan thought about it, and finally realized what had awoken him.  “I’m _starving,_ ” he said, and flung the sheet off of his legs to get up and search for his clothes. 

Qui-Gon sounded disgruntled by his sudden absence, but didn’t stop encouraging Obi-Wan’s progress.  “Excellent sign,” he murmured, stretching his arms above his head before letting loose with a huge yawn.  “Soup for breakfast?” he teased.

Obi-Wan, who was seriously considering mowing his way through the cold-store _and_ the pantry, glared back over his shoulder at his mate.  “Fuck, no.”

In fact, he was on his third sandwich—bread stuffed with strips of fried _rak_ , broad leaves of crisp green kala, and some sort of spicy cheese—when Cliegg stumbled into the kitchen.  “Good morning,” Qui-Gon greeted him, sipping at his tea.  He had skipped out on the kala and the cheese, settling on _rak_ and toast with their morning tea.

“Gfmorfn,” Obi-Wan added, dignity bedamned.  He’d missed food.  He’d missed being _interested_ in food.

“Morning, Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon,” Cliegg said, running his hands through his hair as he made a beeline for the pot of caff, set to brew the night before.  “Nice to see you eating, son,” he added, pulling a mug and the sweetener bowl down from a cabinet.  “Maybe that Healer of yours will stop stress-shedding all over the house.”

“I _try_ not to,” Abella said, wandering out.  She was already alert, which told Obi-Wan she’d been awake for at least an hour.  She eyed him speculatively, while Obi-Wan wolfed down his sandwich and tried not to twitch under the full might of a Healer’s gaze. 

She glanced at Qui-Gon, then grinned at Obi-Wan.  “Well.  If I’d known that would trigger your appetite, I would have told you both to have at it a week ago.”

“Have at what?” Cliegg asked, pouring caff and yawning.

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan said, smiling with forced cheer at Bella.  _We are not discussing my sex life with my father!_

Abella merely raised her eyebrows, smiled, and went over to make her own cup of tea. 

Rillian made a brief appearance, stopping in the kitchen only long enough to acquire breakfast before she retreated back to the room she was sharing with Abella.  When asked, she’d rumbled something about catching up on her class work. 

By the time Shmi and Owen joined them in the kitchen, Obi-Wan was enjoying his second cup of tea and the faint grogginess of a well-earned food coma.  “What’ve you got planned for the day?” he asked Qui-Gon, who was frowning at a datapad.  That meant he was probably checking the newsfeeds.  Obi-Wan tried leaning over to take a peek, just in time for Qui-Gon to shut it down and give him a meaningful glare. 

“I was thinking of heading into the market this morning,” Qui-Gon said, sliding the datapad across the table to Abella, who picked it up and promptly buried her nose in Force-knew-what.  “I need another shirt; what little clothing I have that the Temple sent over is going to be worn out at the rate I’ve been cleaning it all.”

“If you’re going, we need more _rak_ ,” Shmi called from the kitchen, cleaning up from the morning stampede.  “A _lot_ more.”

“And cheese!” Owen added, pushing his empty plate away as he ran from the kitchen to finish getting ready for his morning classes.

“I swear that boy lives on cheese,” Cliegg said fondly.

“Whereas you seem not to live on anything at all in the mornings,” Shmi said, grinning at her husband.  “Obi-Wan shares that trait.”

“Except for this morning,” Cliegg noted.  “When he tried to decimate our food supply.”

 _Well, you know,_ Qui-Gon sent, _shed some protein, replace it with more…_

Obi-Wan choked on his tea and spent the next few seconds coughing it back up.  Abella grinned widely at her datapad and refused to look at him.

_You are a very bad man, Qui-Gon Jinn._

Qui-Gon smiled in agreement.  “Would you like to come with me?  You haven’t left the farm since we arrived.  A change of scenery might be good.”

He was in the midst of deciding (it would be useless to go and then sleep through the trip) when Anakin appeared, pulled out the chair across from him, and settled in with his head in his hands.

Obi-Wan looked at him in concern; if the boy’s demeanor was any indication, he’d had a very rough night.  “Are you feeling all right?”

Anakin nodded without moving his hands. 

Shmi, sensing that not all was well, brought her son a mug of steaming tea.  “Everything okay, Ani?”

“Yes, Mom,” Anakin replied, taking the cup of tea from her.  He was bleary-eyed, and had a particular frown that Obi-Wan knew from long experience meant a very sour mood on his Padawan’s part.  “Just didn’t sleep very well.”

“Bad dreams?” Qui-Gon asked, as Shmi headed back around the counter into the kitchen, looking unconvinced. 

“No,” Anakin said, and slugged back his tea with a grimace.  He got up, walked around the table, and stood almost nose-to-nose with Obi-Wan.  “Did you forget something, dear Master?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.  Apparently, “sour mood” was putting it mildly.  “Not that I recall, Padawan.  Care to enlighten me?”

Anakin frowned at him, leaned even closer, and hissed, “ _Shielding._ ”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, confused, and then his eyes went wide in realization.  _Oh.  Oh, shit._

“Ex-act-ly _!_ ” Anakin grated out.

Obi-Wan had the distinct impression that Qui-Gon was almost swallowing his tongue in effort not to laugh.  Meanwhile, he was trying very hard not to turn bright red.  “Er—I’m sorry?  Really, really sorry?”

“Oh, Ani—” Shmi began, walking back out to the table again.  She paused, taking in the scene between them.  Giving them both a considering look, she continued on.  “It’s going to be your birthday in a few days.  I know things are a bit different, but I’m still going to ask what you’d like.”

Anakin’s lip twisted.  “Puberty!” he yelled, storming out of the kitchen.

Shmi watched him go, concerned, and then glanced at Obi-Wan.  “What was that all about?” she asked suspiciously.

“Er—nothing, we’re heading out to the market now; see you later Mom!” Obi-Wan spewed out the words, grabbed Qui-Gon’s hand, and bolted for the door.

They crossed the large yard, avoiding the flock of chickens that produced the purple eggs.  Obi-Wan glared at them; they glared back.  He had met the chickens a few days ago, introduced to them by Owen while they were roosting in their pen.  The chickens were bald, scrawny-necked things with shiny, puke-green feathers covering squat, fat bodies.  They had pink scaly legs and four clawed toes on each foot.  “Those are the _ugliest_ damn chickens I have ever laid eyes upon,” he’d said.

The chickens had clucked and bucked and glowered back at Obi-Wan.  It had been mutual loathing at first sight.

“You called her Mom,” Qui-Gon said, once they were on the dirt track that led to Falaft, the small town that was closest to the Lars’ farm. 

Obi-Wan glanced back at the house, pursing his lips.  “Huh.  I guess I did.  Didn’t even think about it, really.”  He hesitated.  “I don’t remember ever calling anyone that.  I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing.”

Qui-Gon took his hand and pulled him forward again, smiling.  “I think you flattered her—and it’s not like it’s a surprise, Obi-Wan.  You’re her stepson.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Obi-Wan admitted.  “By the way, I need shielding.  Lots of shielding.  I don’t seem to be able to put it back together on my own yet.”

“Don’t feel like sharing, do you?” Qui-Gon asked, grinning.

“Not _that_ ,” Obi-Wan retorted.  “Besides, Anakin’s situation is difficult enough.  I don’t see the point in torturing him about it.”

“True enough,” Qui-Gon conceded.  “Sorry, you’re right.”  He paused.  “It was still funny, though.”

Obi-Wan offered him an evil smile.  “Don’t forget about the way the bond works.  He didn’t just sense _me._ ”

Both of Qui-Gon’s eyebrows went up, and he coughed, the barest hint of a blush staining his cheeks.  “Ah.  Yes.  Shielding, indeed.”

Falaft was busy when they arrived half an hour later, and they were both sweating when they entered the town square.  A speeder would have been quicker, and cooler, but Obi-Wan had insisted upon walking, if only to get used to the feel of his own boots again.  The people who knew him from his parents’ wedding greeted him cheerfully, calling him Ben, which puzzled him until he remembered that Ben was all Owen had ever called him. 

They stopped for the perishables order first, adding a few things to it when one or the other of them remembered the low quantity of an item at home.  Tea went on the list as a matter of course, especially when Obi-Wan discovered they had a fresh supply of a deep red, naturally loaded with caffeine, that went well with just about anything. 

While Qui-Gon arranged for delivery, Obi-Wan followed his nose to one of the spice vendors a few stalls down in the market proper.  He spent at least five minutes sniffing different containers before Qui-Gon rejoined him.

“It all smells wonderful,” Qui-Gon said, when Obi-Wan offered him a sample of the _vas’e_.  “I just don’t ever know what to do with it.”

Obi-Wan smiled; Qui-Gon’s lack of culinary skill was an old joke between them, one that he thought might be time to remedy.  “That’s because you never bother using your nose,” he said, standing on his toes to kiss the tip of the nose in question.  “Here, smell this, and tell me what it reminds you of.”

Qui-Gon looked doubtful, but obligingly sniffed the next container, one full of a blend that Obi-Wan used often in his quarters.  “Hmm.  Rich, touch of sweet…”  He closed his eyes, frowning.  “Reminds me of Killi bird.”

“Which is exactly what you’d use it on.  Enhances the flavor, brings out the sweet in the meat you’d never notice otherwise.”  Obi-Wan ordered a pound of it; Anakin was already addicted to it, and he was certain that Qui-Gon would remember it once it was on his food.  “Also good on nerf, if you know how to turn it into a marinade.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Qui-Gon grumbled, but he was picking up another container of spice, sniffing at its contents with definite interest.  “Others have tried in the past to overcome this particular lack of talent, Obi-Wan.”

“None of them were as stubborn as I am,” Obi-Wan replied cheerfully, popping a stick into his mouth and chewing on the end of it.  A burst of flavor, sharp and sweet, hit his tongue, and he sighed.  Gimer was all well and good, but Yoda was welcome to it.  Cinnabark was where the real flavor dwelled. 

Qui-Gon recognized the cinnabark, at least.  “Give me one of those,” he said, and Obi-Wan handed one over.  After a moment, Qui-Gon took the stick out of his mouth and rubbed his lips, smiling.  “If I keep that up my lips will be burned by the end of the day,” he said.

“At least you’ll look like you had fun,” Obi-Wan purred, which made Qui-Gon sputter with laughter.   

The Mirrissi woman running the stall had a glazed look in her eyes as he paid for their purchases.  “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you,_ ” she replied, with a faint, bemused grin.  “Do come again.”

As they walked away, he elbowed Qui-Gon in the side.  “I think we just became masturbation material.”

Qui-Gon paused in chewing on the cinnabark, looking thoughtful.  “I wonder how many times that’s happened and I’ve just missed it?”

“I could start naming planets, if you like,” Obi-Wan grinned.

The shirts were not nearly as easy to acquire.  Kaazcint’s population of various humanoids tended to be more Obi-Wan’s size than Qui-Gon’s, and there was nothing available off the shelf.  The man running the store looked flustered. 

“It’s just that you’re so blasted _tall_ , Master Jinn!” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.  He was a skinny human with a florid complexion, and right now he was almost as scarlet as a nearby stack of red shirts.  “I can have something for you in a day or two.  I’ve got a decent seamstress on my list, if you don’t mind something locally produced.”

“Ris, I’m going to be bloody farming in the things,” Qui-Gon said, smiling.  “They don’t have to be works of art.  I just don’t want the rest of my gear falling apart.”

Ris looked calmer, at that.  “All right, that I can do, and it won’t clutter up Jenna’s schedule all that badly.  How about you, Ben?  Needing anything today?”

Obi-Wan considered it, his eye caught by a silky black shirt Ris had put up on display.  Qui-Gon had mentioned something about liking him in black—

 _Saghatha huth na, Jedi,_ he heard, whispered in Darth Zannah’s voice, and it was like someone had slathered his back in ice.

Obi-Wan shivered and shook his head.  “No thanks, Ris,” he said, plastering a smile onto his face.  “I’m good for now.”

The moment they were back in the sunlight, Qui-Gon put a hand on his arm.  “I saw that.  Are you all right?” he asked, peering at Obi-Wan in concern.

He took a deep breath and let it out.  “I’m fine, Qui.  Really.  And I smell lunch.”

“Lunch?” Qui-Gon repeated, amused, as he allowed Obi-Wan to tug them in the direction of grilled vegetables and meats.  “It hasn’t been that long since breakfast.”

“Some of us are apparently trying to make up for lost time,” Obi-Wan replied.  His nose led them to an outdoor café, where several chefs were cooking over a large open grill.  There were tables parked in a vague semi-circle around the grilling area, each of them topped by hideous, multi-colored umbrellas to keep the worst of the sunlight off of the diners.

They found a table farthest from the bustle of the crowds.  Qui-Gon joined him, but chose only a drink made from blended ice and fruit.  He stirred it idly while Obi-Wan consumed two skewers that had been stuffed to the edges with local vegetables and some sort of poultry.  “Are you sure you’re not hitting a growth spurt, too?” Qui-Gon asked, watching as the food disappeared.

Obi-Wan paused, thinking about it.  “You know, that’s a distinct possibility.  I think there was one more refitting I did sometime this year, but considering I was also busy re-kitting Anakin every few months, I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Good business for Ris, then,” Qui-Gon said, watching a squirrel compete for scraps with the local gulls.  Obi-Wan watched for a moment, sighed, and then plucked one of the last vegetables off of the skewer and handed it to Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon shredded it, tossing the pieces in the direction of the feuding critters and momentarily stalling the imminent food war.  “Indulging me again, love?” he asked.

“Always,” Obi-Wan grinned, feeling a rush of happiness.  “I mean, we’re…betrothed?  Engaged?”

“I think ‘engaged’ is more appropriate in this case.”

“Engaged, then.  I’m supposed to indulge you.  Besides, you’re already guilty of it, too.  Who else would put up with the fact that I’m trying to eat my weight in food today?” Obi-Wan asked, stealing the blended fruit drink to enjoy a long swallow.  He was slowly being overcome by a repeat of that morning’s food coma.

Qui-Gon snatched his cup back before Obi-Wan could contemplate drinking more of it.  “Engaged,” he said, shaking his head and smiling.  “That still feels like a dream.”

“If you still feel like that after the actual ceremony, then we have a problem,” Obi-Wan teased, and then yawned, cracking his jaw.  There was a familiar, swimmy sensation in his head that told him it was naptime soon.  “Fuck.”

Qui-Gon’s smile widened.  “Later.  In the meantime, there was a part I needed to pick up for Anakin, something for that malfunctioning autoplow.  It shouldn’t take long.”

Obi-Wan thought about visiting yet another store, and shook his head.  He needed to conserve what energy he had left for the walk home.  “You go ahead.  I’m going to sit here, enjoy the breeze, and hope that I don’t get attacked by the squirrel and the gulls.”

Qui-Gon nodded, a teasing light in his eyes.  “I’m sure you’ll be able to whip them into shape, General,” he said, squeezing Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he got up and walked in the direction of the shop, one that was both the local parts depot and a junk store.

Obi-Wan watched him go, feeling off-kilter.  Hearing Anakin call him by that title was one thing.  Hearing it from Qui-Gon was bizarre. 

He chewed on what was left of the cinnabark for awhile, yawned again, and sighed.  He leaned over, pillowing his head on his arms, and resolved that he was absolutely _not_ going to fall asleep.

So, of course, that was exactly what he did.

_I do like our little games, General, but I think it is time for them to end._

_Kneel before me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I will spare her._

_No._

_No?_

Jeila was screaming, dying, screaming again, and he wanted not to hear it, to never hear those pathetic, heart-cracking whimpers of pain ever again—

_Kneel at my feet, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and her pain will end!_

_Vengeance is my name for you,_ Palpatine whispered, victorious, gleeful.  _When you awaken, you will be Darth Venge, and nothing else._

_No._

“No!” Obi-Wan whispered, snapping awake and jerking his head up in shock.  _Not him, never him.  Never!_

He looked around, feeling his heart pound in his chest, and realized that nothing looked familiar.  He recognized no faces, and the landscape was foreign.  He had no idea where he was, and the air wouldn’t speak to him.  He reached for the Force and felt lost; he reached down for his lightsaber and found it missing. 

 _Calm down,_ Obi-Wan told himself.  _You’re fine.  There’s no danger.  You’re fine—_ but he couldn’t calm down, and panic was starting to rear its ugly head.  He had to know where he was.  Had to _know_.  He didn’t just pop into existence in some new place…did he?

His hands were trembling when someone calling his name caught his attention, and he looked around for the source of the voice.  Qui-Gon was bolting through the crowd of people towards him, his expression a grim mask of worry. 

The moment Qui-Gon arrived, he knelt down in front of him.  “Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, cradling Obi-Wan’s face with both hands, while Obi-Wan stared at him in bewilderment.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know where I am,” Obi-Wan whispered, and felt not a moment’s concern about burying his face in Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  “I don’t know where I am, and I should know.”  He was shaking now, his panic growing, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. 

“Obi-Wan, look at me,” Qui-Gon ordered softly.

Obi-Wan lifted his head, staring into blue eyes the color of warm oceans.  Qui-Gon’s presence was steadying, soothing, and for a moment he felt like he was falling.

“Sleep,” Qui-Gon murmured.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The moment he had Anakin’s requested motivator paid for, Qui-Gon knew something had gone wrong.  Through the bond, he felt a spike of unconscious terror, followed swiftly by rising panic.  He tossed the part back at the shopkeeper, telling him to add it to the perishables order they’d made at Jo’s place, and raced back to the outdoor café. 

He’d used only the barest touch of Force suggestion, and still Obi-Wan had slipped under so fast that Qui-Gon had to catch him.  For a moment, he just held his mate close, trying to calm his pounding heart.  There had been nothing, _nothing_ like this since Abella had allowed Obi-Wan out of bed, and Qui-Gon had to work to settle his own spike of fear.  Not even the suggestion should have worked so well, not after the time and effort they’d spent just getting Obi-Wan to accept Force-suggestions from Qui-Gon in the first place, enabling Obi-Wan to sleep when the need was dire.

“Master Jinn?”

He looked up; they’d gathered a bit of attention, and Jo was in the lead, shading his eyes from the bright sun and gazing at them in worry.  “You ‘n Ben all right there?”

For a brief second, Qui-Gon was tempted to go the usual route, and proclaim everything to be fine.  He settled on a half-truth, instead.  “I think Ben wasn’t quite ready for a trip out today,” Qui-Gon said, managing a terse smile.  “He’s exhausted.  Is there anyone who can give us a ride back out to the farm?”

“Sure, I’ll do it,” Jo said, smiling.  “I’ve got your order ready, anyway.  Poor boy’s not quite recovered from that Naboo bit, huh?”

Qui-Gon shook his head, and for a moment he was amused; Obi-Wan was not going to like discovering that his name was now mentioned at least once in the course of the Galactic news day.  “Not quite, no.” 

At least he had no worry about the people of Falaft—he, Garen, and Yoda had confirmed their lack of duplicity with every single household.  They were a community long-used to being outside of Republic protection, and they looked after their own.  It helped that Tahl had sent along a program to feed into the local communications system; no mention of Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon, Anakin, Rillian, or the Lars family in regards to their location could be sent from the area. 

“Don’t worry, Master Jinn.  Ben’ll be fine.  He’s the stubborn sort,” Jo said.  Qui-Gon nodded, and prayed to the Force that the shopkeeper was right.

Cliegg heard the speeder coming, and met them at the door.  He took one look at his son, unconscious in Qui-Gon’s arms, and jerked his head, his pale blue eyes filled with worry.  “Go,” he said.  “I’ll take care of this and catch up.”

Anakin was there in a moment, Rillian right behind him, both of them wide-eyed.  “What happened?” Anakin demanded, far more adult in voice than he usually bothered with.

“He didn’t know where he was,” Qui-Gon said, as Anakin and Rillian parted enough to gain him access to the hall. 

[Like when we first got here?] Rillian shook her head, barking concern.  [Shmi and Abella are out in the east field, checking on the seedlings.  I’ll go get them,] she said, and hurried off.

Qui-Gon blessed the Force for having granted him yet another brilliantly sensible Padawan.  He entered their bedroom, Anakin at his heels, and lowered Obi-Wan gently down onto the bed. 

“This shouldn’t have just _happened_ ,” Anakin said, chewing on his lower lip.  “Did something trigger it?”

“Not that I noticed.  I stepped away for a moment to purchase that motivator you ordered.  He fell asleep for a moment, and dreamed…something.”  Qui-Gon closed his eyes.  The shared dreaming didn’t seem to work if one of them was conscious, but he’d felt the echo of something horrible—and with that echo came a name. 

“Jeila Vin,” Qui-Gon said, opening his eyes in shock, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.  _Force_. 

Anakin met his gaze, his sharp blue eyes softened by anguish.  “Gods,” Anakin whispered.  “That’s enough to trigger anything.”

Rillian came back with Abella and Shmi, both of their faces tight with apprehension.  “What the hell happened?” Abella demanded, shoving her way through the growing crowd in the room to reach Obi-Wan’s bedside.

After Qui-Gon filled her in, Abella frowned and bent down low, resting her forehead against Obi-Wan’s, and closed her eyes.  She was silent for a few minutes, but Qui-Gon could feel the Force come to the young Healer’s call, and sensed the echo of her probe through the bond. 

“He seems to be settled, now,” she murmured.  “I’m going to wake him up to be certain, but there doesn’t appear to be any ill effects from the slip.”

It was only the work of a moment for her to bring him back to consciousness.  Obi-Wan blinked once and then winced, raising his hand to cover his eyes.

“Headache?” Abella inquired, brushing her claw-tipped hand along Obi-Wan’s temple.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan whispered, his teeth bared in a pained grimace.  “That was _horrible._ ”

“Well, you remembering it happening is better than before,” Abella intoned, straightening up before helping Obi-Wan into a sitting position.  “I’ll consider this an improvement.”

“Before?” Obi-Wan repeated, baffled.  Then he glanced over at the doorway.   “Uh, Dad?”

“Yeah, son?” Cliegg said, who’d been trying his best to be unobtrusive.  Qui-Gon noticed the item he held in his hands and couldn’t quite hide his smile.

“Why do you have a fire extinguisher?”

Cliegg Lars shrugged, a faint smile on his face.  “Just in case.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

If Abella hadn’t at last been willing to talk about what had happened to him on Naboo, Obi-Wan would have seriously considered tying up the Healer-elect and leaving her in the nearest tree.  As it was, he discovered that he had gaping holes in his memory of that time, and he didn’t like _that_ one little bit:  Dooku, Sifo-Dyas’ death, his conversation with Anakin, convalescence on Naboo; the trip to Kaazcint, their arrival on the farm—and waking up, over and over again and not recognizing anything around him. 

He vaguely remembered giving Anakin a stern talking to about swoop-bike racing, and what he now realized had been Anakin’s concentrated effort not to laugh at him.  Also…

“Who did I set on fire?” Obi-Wan wondered, feeling puzzled and horrified as that bit of memory surfaced.

Abella smiled.  “That would be me, one of the times I was trying to confirm if you were aware of your proper time and place.  Don’t worry, you didn’t burn me.  I just had a bald patch on my hand for a few days.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, rather glad she wasn’t holding a grudge.  That explained the fire extinguisher his father had been carting around.  “The last clear memory I have is…” 

He closed his eyes and thought about it.  There was the rushing agony, like someone was drilling through his mind with lasers or jabbing and hammering with chisels, of the failure of his shields, the breakdown of the block.  Then the misdirection that had saved his lightsaber crystals, followed by incoherency and a flash of knowing that Palpatine had been replaced by a friend, one who looked a bit like he’d just stuck his finger into a power outlet.  “Garen.  And—I remember that I had to Share everything, right then, but on reflection that seems to be really poor timing on my part.”

Which was how he found out about the damage the block’s failure had done to his mind, and why his recovery had been so interesting.  “You’ve been wondering why I’m not allowing you access to the datanet, why we’re not giving you information?” Abella pinned him with a stern glare.  “Until I’m certain that your mind has regained its sense of stability, _any_ stressor could delay your ability to recover, possibly even damage your ability to remember, to process information. 

“You’ve had one slip,” Abella said, holding up her finger.  “To be honest, I was expecting more, so this is a positive sign.  If you can go another week without a repeat of today’s little adventure, I’ll let you read Galactic news and gossip to your heart’s content.”

Obi-Wan was tempted to hibernate in his room for the full week, just to avoid tempting fate, but upon reflection it felt like a stupid idea.  The more stimulation his mind received, the more chances he’d have to trigger one of those memory slips, and they’d have a clearer idea of his stage of recovery.  It was, quite possibly, the most sensible he’d ever been about a Healer’s instructions, but he did not want to spend the rest of his life on the disabled list.  He’d once spent eighteen years in that condition, and it was a hell that he did not wish to repeat. 

What made the wait more bearable was Abella’s allowance that Obi-Wan could add the lighter Mistryl stretches into his daily routine, while rescinding the physical limits she’d placed on his mobility.  Now it wasn’t just Falaft that was open to him, but the entirety of the farm, and the rocky hills beyond it. 

He walked whenever he could, sometimes accompanied by Qui-Gon, sometimes by one or both Padawans, sometimes by Owen when the latter wasn’t in school.  Other times, Obi-Wan made the long treks alone, letting his mind drift along whatever pattern of thoughts it wanted, and tried to ignore the tracker that would enable the others to find him quickly if he didn’t make it back to the farm.

Bella wouldn’t rescind the physical limitations on his sex life; penetration was not an option for either of them, as the particular motions involved would put too much strain on his healing insides.  Still, he and Qui-Gon were capable and inventive enough to more than compensate for the lack.  Most mornings, Obi-Wan woke up ridiculously happy, and knew Qui-Gon felt the same. 

It had been a long, long time since his love had found himself with more than a few days’ leave on his hands.  When Qui-Gon wasn’t with the Padawans, or with Obi-Wan, he was out among the plants, practically marinating himself in the Living Force—and more than his fair share of tilled earth. 

At night, Obi-Wan would run his hands through Qui-Gon’s clean, silken hair, admiring the bronze highlights being created by the sun.  “You smell like sunlight and green things, even after you shower,” Obi-Wan said, smiling.

“You smell like the best parts of a kitchen,” Qui-Gon countered, nuzzling him.  “Spices and tea.  I would be hard-pressed to say which of us smells better.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Garen Muln returned to the Lars farm the day before the full week was up.  Obi-Wan waited for him out in the west field, squinting against the dust that was stirred up by the small craft’s repulsorlifts.  As the engines cycled down, Obi-Wan stared at the ship in surprise.

“A Skipray?” he exclaimed, once Garen had lowered the ramp.  “How on earth did you nab one of these?  They just started _building_ the damned things!”

Garen, squatting at the top of the ramp to unbuckle a few small crates of cargo, smiled down at him.  “Well, considering that you guys are technically supposed to be off the radar, and happen to be targets of the Sith, the Council decided that I needed to dart back and forth in something powerful.  Chancellor Valorum backed them up, and the Order now has a dozen of these beautiful, gorgeous ships flying under our banner.  Awesome, huh?”

“I’ll say.  What do you mean, off the radar?” Obi-Wan asked, sensing the presence of others on board.  “And who are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anyone, they’re just _slow_!” Garen said, turning his head to yell the last part into the ship proper. 

“I can still demote you, Knight Muln!” Mace Windu roared back from somewhere within.

Obi-Wan grinned, delighted.  “You brought loud company.  Did I hear that right?  You let Micah Knight you at last, and didn’t bother to tell me?”

“Like you would’ve remembered last time if I’d told you,” Garen teased, striding down the ramp to give him a much stronger, more enthusiastic hug than last time.  “You look better, by the way.  You didn’t know about the off-the-grid thing?  No one is supposed to know your real location except for those lucky few of us who were on Naboo.”

“No one tells me anything.  Abella seems to think that I’ll shatter into pieces if I hear something useful,” Obi-Wan said, amused.

“Well, I’d take her on for you, but little furry woman can make big Jedi fall down with Healer magic,” Garen said.  “Don’t worry, Master Windu will bully her into it.  He’s got a hell of a lot to talk to you and the others about, and isn’t going to take no for an answer.  By the way, you didn’t miss my Knighting ceremony,” Garen continued, grinning.  “There wasn’t one.  Master said:  ‘Congratulations, you’re a Knight.  Get to work!’ and threw me out on my ass.”

Garen hadn’t just brought Mace; Tuuvino was Mace’s silent shadow.  The boy grinned at Obi-Wan in shy greeting as he came down the ramp, still with a touch of a limp in his step from the shattered leg he’d suffered during the creche bombing. 

“Master Windu,” Obi-Wan said, the faintest hint of a smile on his face as Garen slipped away and darted back up the Skipray’s ramp.

“Master Kenobi,” Mace said, his tone utterly serious.  “You look good for a dead man.”

Obi-Wan laughed and reached out; Mace clasped his arm and then hugged him.  “I was a very handsome dead man, thank you very much,” Obi-Wan retorted.

Mace was smiling when he stepped back.  “Whatever you say, old man,” he said, which was both amusing and pleasing; it was how Mace referred to Qui-Gon much of the time, a teasing gesture of respect.  “We have news for you.  I hope you’re ready to hear it.”

“More than ready,” Obi-Wan replied, watching as a silver and blue cylindrical-shaped object came beeping cheerfully across the ship’s hold, descending the ramp with a series of curious chirps. 

“Hello, Artoo.  Anakin is going to be glad to see you,” Obi-Wan said, patting R2-D2’s domed head.  The droid whistled his agreement, and seemed happy with his arrival, as well.

“Padmé said that he was bored witless, and that he’d be much less bored with you lot,” Garen explained, hefting one of the cargo boxes onto his shoulder before striding down the ramp again to join them.  “She says ‘Hello,’ by the way.”

“Then you’ll have to return my greetings at a later date,” Obi-Wan said, eying the crate.  “What’s in the box?”

“Stuff,” Garen replied, smiling at Obi-Wan’s annoyed look.

His friend’s reticence about disclosing the box’s contents lasted until Obi-Wan threatened to hold him upside down with the Force and let Owen confiscate anything that fell out of Garen’s pockets. 

“Fine.  I am the bringer of stuff,” Garen announced, unsealing the crate’s magnetic lock.  “Master Qui-Gon sent me to raid your closet.  You’ll appreciate having more to wear than just three shirts and two pairs of britches.”

Obi-Wan took the duffel with grateful hands; he really was getting tired of wearing the same things over and over again.  Garen had also nabbed a better set of his tunics, which would be useful.  When he lifted the green shirt out of the bag, though, he raised an eyebrow.  Of all the choices Garen could have made— “Why this one?”

“Eh, it was hanging in your ’fresher.  I figured it was out for a reason and nabbed it,” Garen said, tossing a second duffel at Anakin, and a third at Qui-Gon.  Both of them looked relieved to be receiving the bags.  Anakin had taken to sharing clothes with Owen because he’d worn the knees out of his leggings. 

Rillian was handed a small bag that contained a spare bandolier, and the specialized clippers she desperately needed for her fur.  Wookiee hair dulled even the best blades, and she disliked having her hair trimmed with a lightsaber.  Obi-Wan didn’t blame her.  Toasted Wookiee hair smelled worse than rotting eggs.

Abella received her own bag of clothing, along with a letter from her Master and a sealed container the size of her fist.  She read the flimsiplast letter with darting eyes, gasped, and then pried the lid off of the container. 

“Obi-Wan!  Come look!” she squealed in delight.

Obi-Wan peered into the container, and a familiar smell crawled up his nose and said hello as only it could.  “Holy—bacta!” 

That gained Anakin and Qui-Gon’s attention, and all of them peered down at the pale pink gel.

“It smells interesting,” Qui-Gon said in his best diplomatic tone.

“You mean it reeks,” Anakin clarified, grinning.  “But this stinky stuff performs miracles.”

Abella was almost bouncing up and down with excitement.  “Master says that she took a delegation to Thyferra to speak to the Vratix.  They found out why Vratix stopped shipping out bacta a thousand years ago—apparently, during the last Sith War, the Republic went through so much of it that we exhausted their resources, and in response the Vratix closed their borders.  It took about a month of negotiations, but Master Terza got them to agree to start mass-producing and outsourcing bacta for the Republic once more, as long as we never demand it in the same quantities again. 

“This,” Abella held out the container, letting Obi-Wan take it, “is from the first batch to arrive in the Temple.  Master says you’d damn well better use it.”

Obi-Wan stared at the jar in his hands, replaced the lid, and then quite happily hugged a container full of viscous glop.  “Didn’t I miss _you_.”

“She also says, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this years ago!?’” Bella quoted, smacking him on the head with the rolled up piece of flimplast. 

He grinned.  “Because I wouldn’t have known what to say.  I wasn’t part of the Thyferra team the first time around.  I didn’t want to be badgered for information that I didn’t have, or for someone to try and coax me into going, thinking I’d have an advantage with the negotiations.  I don’t get along well with the Vratix even when I’m trying to, and likely would have gotten us kicked off the planet.”

Obi-Wan put the bacta in his room, resisting the urge to marinate the scar on his abdomen with it.  The best time for such things was at night, just before bed, which would give the bacta and his sleeping body the best chance at repairing more of the damage.  The unexpected gift was worth the patience and the restraint he’d forced himself to practice.

When he returned, Garen had dug out another container, with a second flimsiplast note attached.  “This one’s for you in the more direct sense,” he said.

Obi-Wan took the box, recognizing it as one of Kimal Daarc’s padded crystal cases. 

_Dear Brother Padawan,_

_Our Master has informed us as to the tragic loss of your lightsaber to the Sith.  I will refrain from beating you, since the circumstances were beyond your control._

_Garen Muln will have brought a multitude of parts with him at my request, supplying everything you might need for building another multi-crystal blade of your preference.  I must confess, though, that my skills at finding a new crystal for you seem to be lacking.  The only gem in my collection that feels like it was meant to go to Kaazcint is in this package, and yet, I’m not sure that it’s yours.  You may feel differently, and if so, may the Force bless its use, and don’t lose this one!  I will keep searching, but perhaps the answer to this puzzle lies on the planet of your recuperation.  Rest and heal well, my friend.  We need you._

_—Kimal_

Obi-Wan looked up, confused.  “He doesn’t know that we’ve found the crystals?” he asked Qui-Gon.

“In case you didn’t notice, we don’t send messages to the Temple from here,” Qui-Gon reminded him, smiling.  “That’s Knight Muln’s job.”

“That’s me, your glorified messenger service,” Garen quipped, bowing low.  “Shuttling people, parts, bacta, and droids, only ninety-nine credits a ride!”

Tuuvino looked up, biting his lip before daring to venture, “He overcharged us, Master.”

Mace nodded gravely.  “This means we’ll have to shake him down, Padawan.”

“Sorry, I already ate your fare,” Garen proclaimed, which made Owen giggle, and Tuuvino grinned and at once seemed far less shy than before.

Obi-Wan smiled and went back to examining the box, turning it over and over in his hands.  Kimal was right; whatever kind of crystal this was, it was not his.  He pursed his lips, thought about it, and then handed it to Qui-Gon.  “You might find this interesting.”

Qui-Gon frowned, but explored the box with his own Force sense, and after a few moments understanding dawned in his eyes.  “Padawan,” he called.

Rillian darted into the room, just returning from putting her things away.  [Yes, Master?]

“That second lightsaber you wanted to build,” Qui-Gon began, doing his best to look nonchalant.  “Are you still interested?”

Rillian hesitated before grinning.  [Do Sarlaccs eat everything?]

“Generally, yes,” Obi-Wan said, amused. 

Qui-Gon smiled and handed Rillian the box.  “See what you think of this.”

Rillian looked confused until the moment her large hands touched the crystal’s container.  Then she barked, her eyes bright with amazement, and pried open the lid.  For a long, silent moment, she stared at its contents with huge green-grey eyes.

“What’d you get?” Anakin asked, taking a peek.  Then his eyes widened, too.  “Holy shit.”

Owen peered into the box and looked confused.  “It’s a rock,” he said, frowning.  “What’s so special about a rock?”

[It’s a Solari crystal,] Rillian growled softly, while Anakin murmured translations for Owen.  [It’s said that only a Jedi who is pure in spirit, truly in the Light, can use a Solari.]

“Which is nonsense, but it _is_ true that a Solari crystal cannot be corrupted by the Dark Side,” Qui-Gon said, resting his hand on his Padawan’s trembling shoulder.  “Does it feel like yours, Padawan?”

Rillian gulped.  She reached into the box and picked up the crystal, wrapping her fingers around the yellow-orange stone.  Obi-Wan listened as the Force sang out in one clear, approving note.  [I think it likes me,] Rillian said, dazed.  [But—I shouldn’t—]

“Raallandirr,” Qui-Gon said, tugging on her small Padawan braid with gentle fingers.  “As my first student would also tell you, it isn’t about worthiness, of having the biggest, most valuable stone go to the most deserving.  It’s about finding the right crystal for the right Jedi.  This crystal suits you, and the Force tells you so.  Now, what are you going to do?”

Rillian stared down at the crystal in her hand.  [Build a lightsaber, I guess, Master.  Maybe panic, too.]

“Breathe,” Qui-Gon said, smiling, pulling her in for a hug.  “Breathe out the panic, breathe in the assurance of the Force.”

The sight of Qui-Gon leading his newest Padawan through the simple exercise filled Obi-Wan with nostalgia; he looked over and realized that Anakin felt much the same as he did.  “Come here,” he whispered, and Anakin skirted the box and went willingly into his Master’s arms. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

The new arrivals joined Obi-Wan’s family in crowding around the table for evening meal, which was noisier than usual, and far more chaotic.  Obi-Wan could tell by the brilliant grin on Shmi’s face, and the pleased glint in his father’s eye, that the company was more than welcome. 

Owen was talkative unless Mace addressed him, whereupon he went white-faced and stammered out his answers.  The Councilor tolerated this for most of the meal, waiting to see if Owen would calm down, before he decided it was time to intervene. 

“Owen Lars, I promise you, I only bite if I’m asked,” Mace said.

“Really?” Owen squeaked. 

“Truly,” Tuuvino said, grinning at him.  “I was stupid enough not to believe him, and he bit me anyway.”

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “That’s four Padawans you’ve bitten now, Mace.”

Mace shrugged.  “They asked for it.  I do try to honor the requests made of me.”

Owen narrowed his eyes.  “So, I could ask you anything, and you’d do it?”

“Within reason,” Mace confirmed, nodding, “as long as nothing will be harmed by it.”

Owen’s eyes lit up.  “Teach me something, then, Master Windu?  I’ve been trying to follow along with Ani and Rill after school, but they’re so _fast_.”

“I have matters that need discussing tonight, but if you would like to join Tuuvino and myself at dawn, I will do my best to teach you the same katas that my Padawan and I are working on.  Tuuvino is still learning the steps, so it won’t be too fast for you,” Mace said, after thinking it over for a moment. 

Owen went pale again.  “Dawn?”  He frowned.  “But, they don’t start that early,” he said, waving his hand at Qui-Gon, Rillian, and Anakin.

“We’re on medical leave, Owen,” Anakin said.  “They’re not.  If we weren’t on leave, I’d be throwing myself out of bed just as early.”

“And falling on the floor in the process,” Obi-Wan teased.  “How many times have you crawled your way to your breakfast, Padawan?”

“Plenty,” Anakin grinned. 

Qui-Gon looked at Mace, sensing the other Master’s intent, and then touched Rillian’s shoulder.  _Padawan.  Why don’t you take Owen outside and show him something interesting?  Mace may have some difficulty talking Anakin’s mother into what must come next._

Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon, puzzled, as he overheard the request through the shared bond.  He was about to ask when Rillian stood up, grinning at Owen.  [Hey, short stack, you want to go learn how to kick like a Wookiee?]

The moment Anakin translated for him, Owen grinned back.  “Sure!  Can I, Dad?  Mom?”

Cliegg looked as if he already understood what was going on, which was more of a hint than Rillian’s distraction.  “Go ahead, Owen.  Just don’t stray farther than the yard.  I have a feeling we might be taking a trip this evening.”

“Awesome!” Owen exclaimed, following the young Wookiee from the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Shmi asked, a hint of suspicion on her face.  “I feel like I’m witnessing something akin to ‘divide and conquer.’”

“In a sense, you are,” Mace said with his usual honesty.  “There is a carnival in Totyn this evening.  It’s several days away by speeder, but the trip takes only a few minutes by atmospheric flight.  Knight Muln is going to take you, your husband, and Owen to this carnival, where you will be seen out in public by a very large percentage of the population.”

Cliegg was nodding his agreement, but Shmi only looked incensed.  “Anything you have to say to my sons, you’re going to say to me as well, Master Windu.”

“Lady Lars, as much as I do understand your willingness to share their burden, I cannot, in good conscience, allow it,” Mace said, the sober countenance of a Councilor in place once more.  “The more you know of the situation with the Sith, the more danger you and your family will be in.”

“I’ve spent my entire life in danger, Master Windu—” Shmi began to retort, but Cliegg held up his hand, cutting her off.

“Love, it’s not just for our sakes that he’s asking.  It’s for theirs,” he said, gesturing at Anakin and Obi-Wan.  “If this Sith were ever to come after us, the less knowledge we have of what he’s done, the safer we will be.  Well, safe being a relative term, if this Sith is anything like the old legends,” Cliegg admitted.  “He might still try to use us to sway our sons to do something they should _not_ do, but if I can choose to put my boys at less of a risk, I’m going to.”

 _I love you, Obi-Wan.  Now get the hell out of here._   Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes as the memory surfaced; he knew well enough that his father meant every word he spoke.

“Why do you think Aika and I changed Obi-Wan’s name?” Cliegg continued, a touch of regret on his face despite his smile.  “We never wanted to see the day when someone with a grudge against the Jedi would try to use us, or Owen, against our boy.  We didn’t want to be weapons against him.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Shmi whispered.  She was listening, but not yet convinced.  Obi-Wan opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but knowing that Mace and his father were right.  Anakin beat him to it.

“Please go with them, Mom,” Anakin said, his voice soft.  His eyes were far too bright, full of remembered misery.

Shmi sighed, reaching out for her son’s hand, which he took gladly.  “I’d rather be here for you, my son.”

“I know, and believe me, I love you for it,” Anakin said with a watery smile.  “It’s just—I—you were tortured to death, in my memories.  I found you just in time for you to die in my arms.  I can’t—maybe it makes me a bad Jedi, but I can’t go through that again,” he said, and he sniffed as tears started rolling down his face.  “I didn’t handle it well at _all._ ”  Then he shook his head, wiping his face with his sleeve.  “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Uli-ah set Ka Thak Ta,” Obi-Wan murmured.  _Dark Night of the Children of set Ka._   Darahn Veila had told him the legend once, the tale of the black demon that had ended the bloodline of the entire _set_ _Ka_ tribe. 

Anakin looked startled, but nodded, fresh tears escaping his eyes.  “Yeah.”

It had been hard to hear the story, knowing that Darth Vader had still been almost three years distant when those events took place—and still harder to reconcile, when it had been his voice to push for Anakin’s Knighting. 

“I wish you’d told me,” Obi-Wan said.

“I tried, I really, really did,” Anakin said, wiping his face again.  “During the Battle for Kamino, when the two of us bombed out in the ocean and had to wait for pickup, sitting on the underside of your Aethersprite.  I—I _wanted_ to, and then I just—couldn’t,” he said, hanging his head. 

Shmi closed her eyes.  “Ani,” she murmured, and drew her son into her arms.  “I’ll go, I’ll go.  I do not like it, but I’ll go.”

“I don’t like it, either,” Anakin said, voice muffled by his mother’s tunic.  “I should’ve just thrown my lightsaber at Palpatine’s face.”

“And then we would be down two lightsabers instead of just one,” Qui-Gon pointed out, which made Anakin utter a short laugh.

Mace nodded, a flash of relief in his dark eyes, before he turned his attention to his Padawan.  “Tuuvino, I want you to go with them.”

Tuuvino looked shocked.  “But my place is with you, Master!”

“Come here,” Mace said, motioning with his hand.  Tuuvino obeyed and got out of his chair, walking over to his Master with a frown on his narrow face.  “This is no slight against you, Padawan.  If circumstances were ideal, I would not have taken you as my apprentice for another two years.  You’re still very young, younger than I prefer to see one of us begin walking this path.  I want you to have the chance, when the opportunity arises, to enjoy what childhood you have left.  With a Sith on the loose, I have no doubt that you will be forced to grow up sooner than either of us might like.”

“All right,” Tuuvino said, but he still looked unhappy about it.  “Master, what was your childhood like?”

It was Qui-Gon who answered, standing up to rest his large hand on the Zabrak boy’s thin shoulder.  “Your Master began seeing Shatterpoints when he was six years old, Tuuvino.”

“My childhood was dust when that happened, Padawan,” Mace said, his face grave.  “Enjoy yours while you still have it.”

Tuuvino nodded, and they both leaned forward, their foreheads touching.  “Yes, Master.”

When Owen, Cliegg, Shmi, Garen, and Tuuvino were gone, those who remained settled together in the farm’s living room.  R2-D2 came with them, twittering along in Anakin’s wake.  Obi-Wan curled up with his mate on the short sofa, while Anakin and Rillian squeezed themselves into an overstuffed chair.  Mace sat in one of the hardback chairs across from them, while Abella selected a pillow and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. 

“I’m still not pleased with this, Master Windu,” Abella said, once everyone was settled.  “When I responded to your databurst from Selonia, I told you tomorrow for a _reason_.”

“I’m sorry, Abella, but the timing for the carnival was too good to miss.  The more people who witness the Lars family out in public tonight, the better, since it’s not on record where myself, my Padawan, and Garen have gone,” Mace said, taking a moment to massage his forehead.  “The chances of my time here being discovered are slim to none, but I would prefer to exercise caution.  You also couldn’t answer my question at the time.   _Is_ twelve hours truly going to make that much of a difference?”

The Healer-Elect sighed.  “I still don’t know.  I wish that I did.  Regardless, we’re all here now.  Have at it, Master Windu.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely, then turned his attention back to Obi-Wan.  “You are a pain in my backside, you know that?  We are just damned lucky that the blacklisting of Force Illusion was an unofficial decision instead of a decree recorded in the Archives.  I got to tell the Senate that it was an ancient skill that the Order had little use for, instead of the reason it was ditched in the first place.”

“You’re welcome,” Obi-Wan said, crossing his arms.  “I was keeping that in mind, you know.”

Mace grinned for a brief moment.  “I was hoping so.  Ready to hear what you started?”  Obi-Wan nodded. 

“All right, then:  Palpatine is no longer Senator of Naboo, which Abella tells me that she readily admitted as much to you, if nothing else.  The Naboo have an interim representative in their seat right now, and elections will be held next month to confirm a new Senator, as well as a new Gungan Representative to the Senate. 

“Chancellor Valorum managed to push through a motion ensuring that Palpatine receives a Senate trial instead of a trial in the courts, which would have been a disaster for everyone involved.  In the meantime, the Viceroy of the Trade Federation did manage to escape through to the court system, and we’ve already seen how that gets handled.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, unsurprised, but it was still disappointing news.  “Of course he did.  Nute Gunray always excelled at slipping through the legal cracks.”

Mace nodded in rueful agreement.  “We are, of course, keeping an eye on him.  We’ve got their documentation subpoenaed, but the Federation is taking their sweet time getting it to the Temple, which assures us that the documents are being altered.  We’re not going to track Sidious that way. 

“I’m sure you knew, even on Naboo, that the only thing we did was give Queen Amidala the means to remove Palpatine from power.  Without finding him, or finding further physical evidence of his treason against the Republic, that trial will go nowhere,” Mace said.

“I knew,” Obi-Wan admitted.  “I didn’t like it, but I didn’t see another solution.  I hadn’t expected Palpatine to admit his Sith identity when we recorded him, though.  If I’m remembering the old standards correctly, that does put him under the Order’s jurisdiction.”

Mace gave him a feral smile.  “Any self-identified Sith is under the Order’s jurisdiction unless the Senate takes precedence, and Valorum has already told the Council that Palpatine is ours.”

Obi-Wan frowned.  “That could be political suicide, if the Senate were to decide that they wanted precedence after we take action.”

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “Obi-Wan, I don’t think Finis cares any longer about his political career.  He’s far more concerned with keeping the Republic safe from the threat that Sidious represents.”

“As are we,” Mace intoned solemnly.  “Quinlan, Padawan Secura, Garen, Padawan Tachi, and half the Temple mechanics have been all over the Interceptor that they found in the hangar bay above the waterfall—”

“Sorry, the _what_?” Obi-Wan wanted to know, nonplussed.

“Yeah, you missed that part,” Anakin said, running his hand through his hair.  “Maul had his ship parked up above Theed in a secret hangar bay.  The ship is definitely Seinar’s work, but...”  Anakin glanced at Mace curiously.  “Do we know anything else about it, yet?”

“Not yet.  The Seinar Corporation has no knowledge of any such model ever put into production, even as a custom build,” Mace answered, looking annoyed.  “We’re certain that they had something to do with the Interceptor’s construction, but their files are so damned clean that it’s giving Master Tahl fits.  Supposedly, they don’t even have plans to construct a twin-ion engine yet.”

Anakin chewed on his lower lip, thinking.  “They had to have gotten the design from somewhere.  Sidious is smart, yeah, but he’s not a mechanic.  He could have given Seinar the idea, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell them how to build it—and it _was_ Senair’s design in the first place, I remember that much.”

“Me, too,” Obi-Wan added.  “They were quite proud of their little creation.  The TIE models were everywhere after a few years.”

Mace’s expression tightened.  “Moving on:  We still have no official cause of death for Master Sifo-Dyas.  There was a trace amount of an unknown chemical compound in his body, but according to toxicologists, it would not have caused his death.”

“You’re talking about Shillanis,” Anakin guessed, frowning.  “How the hell would anyone have gotten through Temple security to dose him with it?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, squashing a fierce desire to grind his teeth in frustration.  “If Sidious can hide himself so well, what’s stopping him from teaching others?  If they were properly hidden in the Force, anyone could have walked right past security and sprinkled the powder right onto Sifo-Dyas’ skin.”

“Certain members of the Council—myself, Adi, Master Yoda, Saesee Tiin, Ki-Adi Mundi—we believe similarly,” Mace said.  “But since Shillanis is a substance that we only know of thanks to you,” he nodded at Obi-Wan, “it’s not exactly something we can announce to the Republic at large.  However, we have warned the Temple residents, and passed on that warning to the satellite Temples on Corellia, Dantooine, and Almas.  The service corps have been alerted as well.  We’ve tried sending a message to the Altisian faction, but they tend not to leave a forwarding address.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the Altisian Knights.  They were fairly good at taking care of themselves,” Obi-Wan said dryly. 

Anakin nodded.  “I’ll say.  Once they realized the purges were in effect, they hightailed it.  Vader never found them.”

Mace retrieved a holo-emitter from his belt, placing it on the low table that was resting in the center of the room.  “This is from the security monitoring system for the power station in Theed, where you and Qui-Gon fought Darth Maul,” he said, giving Obi-Wan a sympathetic look.  “I know it’s not exactly something you want to watch again, but we have yet to discover the identity of the Hand that tried to kill you.  In light of what came after, I was hoping that you or Anakin might remember him now.  Perhaps with a name, we can open up another path to seeking the Sith.”

He was right about one thing; Obi-Wan was _not_ looking forward to watching himself almost die via security vid.  He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. 

He wasn’t dead, and neither was Qui-Gon.  That place had no more power over him.  It was just a room.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, and Qui-Gon gripped his hand.  “Play it,” Qui-Gon said, his voice just above a rasp.  This couldn’t be any easier for his mate than it was for Obi-Wan, and he squeezed back, sending a pulse of reassurance through all three bonds.  Anakin nodded, his jaw set.  Rillian growled her assent. 

It wasn’t as bad as Obi-Wan might have thought, since there was no sound.  Mace started the recording right at the point that the three of them were facing off in a circle around the edge of the melting pit, Maul between them.  Their lightsabers were blurs of color in motion. 

At last, there was the feint; Maul’s torso sprouted emerald and sapphire blades, and it was over.  Obi-Wan’s lips were touched by a faint smile.  He well-remembered the feel of Qui-Gon’s strong arms trying to crush him in a relieved embrace.  The kiss made Rillian coo with delight; the young Wookiee was incredibly vested in her Masters’ relationship.

Then the Hand came in from out of frame, cloaked and hooded, his red blade darting in.  Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and decided to be relieved that the security feed showed him from the back instead of the front.  As it was, Qui-Gon squeezed his hand so tightly that his bones creaked in protest. 

 _Huh.  I really didn’t have the chance to react, did I?_ Obi-Wan mused, watching himself fall and trying his best to dissociate from it.  Not his best moment, to be certain. 

 _No,_ Qui-Gon whispered, his mental voice thick with remembered grief.

Qui-Gon was advancing into the frame; like Obi-Wan, he was visible only from the back.  The Hand lowered his hood, and Obi-Wan sat up in surprise.

“Jeng Droga,” he and Anakin said in the same breath, before glancing at each other.

“That little _bastard_ ,” his Padawan growled.

Obi-Wan nodded, but inside, he was concerned.  By the time of the Empire, Jeng Droga had become one of Palpatine’s most-trusted companions, if the Sith were said to be capable of trust.  Sidious had taught Jeng Droga to hide himself in the Force, yes, but this still felt like…

“A sacrifice,” he murmured, watching as Qui-Gon’s lightsaber removed Droga’s head from his shoulders, before both parts of his body tumbled backwards into the melting pit.

Mace touched the emitter, and the projection vanished.  “What did you say?”

“A sacrifice,” Obi-Wan repeated, running his hand down his face in a gesture so habitual, so ingrained, for a moment he actually felt a beard instead of skin.  “Jeng Droga was valuable to him.  Even after teaching Droga how to hide, Sidious must have known that the chance was very high that Droga wouldn’t return.”

“Why do you think so?” Mace leaned forward, his fingers steepled together.

“Because he wasn’t that good,” Qui-Gon answered for him, resting his chin on his hand.  “He could have been, eventually, but on Naboo his lightsaber skills were crude.  While he chose a good time to ambush one of us, it still left the other to deal with him.  That does not reassure me at all.”

“You think he’s cleaning house,” Anakin realized.  “That Palpatine’s going to try to get rid of anyone who might be a liability, a means to track him down.”

[Why yes, because our job wasn’t hard enough already,] Rillian growled, her eyes glinting with anger.  [This means that the longer we wait—]

“The more bodies we’re going to come across, and our chance of success will dwindle,” Mace finished, scowling.  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.  Yoda considered it a possibility as well.  I don’t often say this, but I was hoping the troll was wrong.” 

Mace pulled out a second emitter.  “This one is up to you, Obi-Wan, Anakin.”

Anakin frowned at the tiny device.  “What’s this one?”

“When Adi, Padawan Tachi, Tuuvino and I returned from Naboo, the first thing Adi and I did after meeting with the Senate was to go to Sidious’s residence in the Industrial Zone.  Knight Mundi and Saesee Tiin were keeping the place under guard, waiting for us, because the last thing I wanted to do was send anyone into a place they knew nothing about,” Mace explained.  “We recorded our time in his residence, of course, since the evidence would need to be presented to the Senate. 

“I believe,” Mace continued, glancing at Obi-Wan, “that there is something in this recording that can give us all hope.”

“Hope?” Anakin repeated in disbelief.  “In that place?”

“Play it,” Obi-Wan said, even though the anticipation of this was far, far worse than the duel for Naboo.  Until that moment, he had only ever seen the residence in the vague recollection he had of the things behind the block.

He took a deep breath as the emitter began projecting, distant memory and holographic image beginning to blur together, becoming concrete things in his mind.  Whoever had been controlling the camera looked everywhere, taking in the glossy black walls, the blood-red flags suspended from the ceiling, the dark tile on the floor. 

“Didn’t change very much, did it,” Obi-Wan said faintly.

“When he moved into the Imperial Palace, he copied the place.  Every room, exactly the same,” Anakin whispered, his eyes huge in his pale face.  Rillian rumbled concern and draped her arm over her fellow Padawan’s shoulders. 

The place that might have become the replica throne room was still there, empty of all but the raised dais.  Obi-Wan shivered. 

 _Show me why you would choose this path.  Convince me that you’ve done the right thing,_ he thought in sudden, sharp clarity, and darkness swallowed him.

Obi-Wan struggled to get his awareness back, and found himself curled over his knees, his forehead resting on the rug, struggling to get air.  Qui-Gon’s hands were on his back, soothing motion and touch; he was broadcasting the same sense of peace through their bond.  Anakin, Rillian, Bella, even Mace—their hands were resting on his back, on his shoulders, forcing his body to relax, encouraging his lungs to let him breathe. 

“Oh, fuck,” Obi-Wan gasped out.  “Did I have a panic attack?”

“Yep,” Anakin said with forced cheer.  “I get to have mine next, okay?”

“Certainly,” he replied, his voice wobbling.  There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes, but as he kept breathing, they faded.  He started trembling in reaction.  _Hell._   “We can—we can take turns.”

“You two are weird,” Abella informed them, and he felt the tips of her claws on his right temple.  “Hold still, Obi.  I’m going to see if we triggered anything.”

“I know exactly where I am,” Obi-Wan protested, but she pulled on a lock of his hair and ignored him, continuing to probe his mind.  He sighed and let her, the worst of the shaking already easing.

“Hmm.  Looks good,” the Healer murmured.  “Memory centers seem to be more active, too.  Things getting clearer?”

“Yes.”  He shook his head; he didn’t _want_ that clarity.

“Can you continue?” Mace asked him, as Qui-Gon helped him to sit up.  He was dizzy, but the sensation passed quickly.  “I don’t want to force either of you into a situation you’re not yet ready for.”

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, who shrugged and spread his arms wide.  “I can’t remember this stuff unless I go digging for it, because it’s _his_ ,” he said, giving Obi-Wan a sad smile.  “I just choose not to go looking for it.  You don’t seem to have that option, Master.”

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed.  “Keep playing it, Mace.  I’ll just sit on the floor to keep from throwing myself off the couch again.”  That made Qui-Gon chuckle, even though Obi-Wan could still feel his mate’s intense worry.   

Qui-Gon settled next to him, both of them resting on their knees, their hands clasped together.  Mace activated the emitter again, showing the four Jedi touring the first floor of Sidious’s residence with cautious steps. 

At one point, he saw Adi Gallia pause in the dining room, while Saesee Tiin gave her a questioning look.  Obi-Wan recognized the glossy black table and had to restrain the urge to giggle at the sight of it. 

“This place is like a tomb,” Adi said at last.  From the team’s entry until that moment, not a word had been spoken, and they had been listening only to footfalls.

“I’d sure like to know who built it,” Saesee muttered.  “Considering how hard it is to create new structures on Coruscant, one would think the effort that went into this place would have been noticed.”

“Yes, well, no one noticed the veil, either, and Master Yoda and the rest of the Council are _still_ having trouble getting rid of the damned thing,” Ki-Adi Mundi said. 

“Saesee, my friend, I think it might be more accurate to wonder _when_ the Sith built this sanctuary,” Adi pointed out.  “It doesn’t feel new to me.”

“Quiet, all of you,” Mace ordered, though he was not visible in the hologram.  “I hear footsteps that aren’t ours.”

They had reached the area that Obi-Wan remembered as leading to the primary lifts.  Standing in the junction of the hallway was a boy, dressed all in black, with bleach-white hair and pale skin.  If Obi-Wan had to guess, he would have said that the boy was no older than sixteen, no younger than twelve.  He was taking in the presence of the Jedi with a frown, his gaze sharp. 

“Do you know whose house you have breached?” the boy asked, his tone commanding, demanding respect.

“Palpatine, former Senator of Naboo, Sidious of the Sith,” Adi replied, her voice firm.

The boy’s lips parted, eyes widening, and the imperious tone fell away.  “Is he—is he coming back?”

“He’s on the run.  I do not think he would find it wise to return to Coruscant,” Mace affirmed. 

The boy broke into a wide smile, and as he turned, Obi-Wan caught a flash of gentle brown.  The boy had brown eyes, full of excitement and relief and joy.

_Why did you do that?_

_Because, dear Jedi, I wanted to go home._

“Oh, gods,” he whispered.

“Keant!  Donnua!” the boy called excitedly.  “Keant!  Donnua!  Jash he na’atu kevian fala!”

After a moment, two women melted out of the darkness.  They were both dressed in black, as the boy was.  Obi-Wan remembered them, too, but they were young, slight, pale things, with glimmering eyes full of fear.

“Rackthor?” the first one called, shaking with terror as she took in the Jedi and their lightsabers. 

Obi-Wan heard Qui-Gon draw in a startled breath, followed by Anakin’s surprised Huttese swearing.

“It’s all right.  Sidious et su’aena hu vatha ke tanaeu fa sha no,” he told them in a language and dialect that Obi-Wan had never heard before.  The boy turned back to the Jedi.  “I am Rackthor kl Naviti.  These are my sisters, Keant and Donnua.  We have been prisoners here since we were small children, forced into the servitude of Lord Sidious.  We would…very much like to go home, Jedi,” he said, and bowed.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan was quiet after Rackthor’s appearance, and watched the rest of the emitter’s recording with wide, haunted eyes.  The boy was all too willing to show Mace, Adi, Saesee, and Ki-Adi Mundi around Palpatine’s residence, issuing words of caution and illuminating the Masters as to each room’s contents.  Saesee wisely wrote each moment of identification on the doors as they went by, so that they could avoid further surprises. 

“Where are the Hands?” Adi asked.  By that point, Rackthor’s sisters had decided that the Corellian Jedi was the safest of the group.  She was holding both of their hands, and thus she had a dark-robed shadow on either side of her.  “This place seems empty, all things considered.”

Even to Qui-Gon, Rackthor looked unsurprised.  “My—Sidious does not need to be present, or use a communicator, to speak to his Hands.  They hear his voice in their minds, and do what he bids them.  He would have had more than enough chance to warn them.”

“What about you?” Ki-Adi Mundi asked.  “Did he not send you a message as well?”

Rackthor licked his lips and offered the Jedi Knight a brittle smile.  “I cannot hear my Lord Sidious, Master Jedi,” he said.  “I serve another purpose.”

The hssiss were in the same place, and at first, Saesee and Ki-Adi Mundi refused to believe in their existence.  Mace glared at them.  “Trust me, they’re real,” he said, marching past the door in question without hesitation.  “I don’t think any of us need to chance death just to take a look at the forsaken things.”

Palpatine’s library was empty.  Qui-Gon wasn’t the least bit surprised.

That night, Qui-Gon held Obi-Wan in his arms.  Obi-Wan remained silent, and eventually Qui-Gon fell asleep to the sound of his mate’s even breathing.  He wasn’t asleep, or meditating, but he wasn’t panicking, either.  Qui-Gon could be content with that for the moment.

Qui-Gon awoke in the morning to discover that neither of them had moved.  A cool morning breeze caressed his skin, and he pulled the sheets back up to cover their hips against the chill.

“Good morning,” Obi-Wan murmured.  “Sleep well?”

“Sort of,” Qui-Gon answered.  “You?”

“Not a bit,” Obi-Wan said, and rolled over to face him.  His eyes were bloodshot from lack of rest, but he was calm, as if he’d come to some sort of decision.  “There’s somewhere I want to go.”

Abella didn’t look enthusiastic about the idea of Obi-Wan leaving the planet.  She was mollified by his solemn pledge that he was coming back, would not seek out trouble, and promised to let everyone else do the heavy lifting, physically and mentally.

Garen raised an eyebrow when Obi-Wan made his request.  “Are you sure you’re not a masochist?” he asked.  When Obi-Wan merely looked at him, Garen sighed.  “Fine.  But if you’re all coming along, it’s going to be a bit crowded until I drop Master Windu and Tuuvino off at Centerpoint.”

The Skipray wasn’t meant to house seven passengers plus a droid (R2-D2 refused to be left behind; C-3PO was content to stay right where he was, thank you) and the trip to Centerpoint Station was filled with good-natured ribbing, lots of elbow-jostling, and on more than one occasion, a long line to the ’fresher. 

The two cabins were already occupied by Mace, Tuuvino, and Garen, so Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Rillian decked out in the hold, where there was more than enough space to stretch out.  During the observed day cycle, they stashed all of their belongings behind the few crates of supplies, making room for exercise or entertainment. 

Obi-Wan didn’t speak much during the trip, but he broke Mistryl rules and began teaching them all the basics of that forbidden martial art.  Even though all Obi-Wan did was introduce them to the warm-up stretches, and a few very slow demonstrations of the basic Mistryl katas, they all were sweat-soaked and limp as rags by the time it was over. 

Qui-Gon rested his hands on his knees, slowing his breathing and heart rate back down to more acceptable levels.  He was in excellent shape, and still the precise motions and time-consuming stretches had left him panting for breath.  Now Qui-Gon understood why Obi-Wan liked the Mistryl forms so much, why he was relying on them for his recovery.

“Man, I’m no good at this,” Garen complained, the third time he wound up on the floor.  “This is for you tiny people.”

Obi-Wan went through the same motion he’d been teaching Garen, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair as he moved.  “You’re just used to bulldozing.  This is about putting a great amount of strength into the least area of contact with intense speed.”

“See?” Garen muttered, standing up and trying again to follow Obi-Wan’s instructions.  “For tiny people!  And Bella’s going to have your head, since you’re not supposed to be doing any of this.”

“Bacta,” Obi-Wan said, and proceeded to demonstrate his rediscovered flexibility by bending over, palms pressed flat against the floor.  Qui-Gon, mesmerized by the sight he was presented with, was promptly floored by his own Padawan.  Rillian was taking to the Mistryl techniques like she’d been born to the clan.

Mace and Tuuvino parted ways with them on Centerpoint Station in the Corellian System.  After takeoff, Garen cracked his knuckles.  “One last chance.  I can take you back to Kaazcint, or anywhere else in the galaxy,” he said.

The glare Obi-Wan sent in Garen’s direction could have melted duracrete.  Garen held up his hands in surrender.  “All right, all right!  Masochist!”

[It does seem sort of masochistic, all things considered, Master,] Rillian said later, while Obi-Wan was in the cockpit with Garen and Anakin, playing Sabacc.  Garen was cheating, and swearing, because Obi-Wan kept winning, anyway. 

Qui-Gon nodded.  “From a certain point of view, yes.  I don’t think this is about self-inflicted pain, though, my Padawan.”

[Then what _do_ you think this is about, Master?] the young Wookiee wanted to know.

He thought about it, not sure he could put what he felt into words.  “Reverence.  Paying homage.”

Rillian’s eyes widened.  [Oh,] she whispered, and Qui-Gon smiled at her.

They arrived on Tatooine after another two days, and Anakin wrinkled his nose at the sight of it.  “I keep forgetting how it looks from up here,” he said.  “I always think I’m going to be happy to see it again until I actually _see_ it.”

“I understand completely,” Qui-Gon replied.  He’d been to Tatooine twice; one visit had been with his sixteen-year-old, newly Knighted Padawan, earning him Anakin and Shmi Skywalker’s acquaintance.  He’d already been left astounded by the changes in Obi-Wan, and then had found himself dumped into the chaotic nuances of Prophecy, to boot. 

The memory of the second visit still filled him with the intense desire to find Jabba Desilijic Tiure and shove him off of a cliff.

Beside him, Obi-Wan smiled.  “That would be a hell of a mess.”

Anakin directed them to the Lars Homestead first, since Cliegg had asked them to check on the property.  “Haven’t been out there since I inherited it,” Obi-Wan’s father had confided, looking guilty.  “I don’t want it squatted upon, or overrun, but until I net enough profit from this place to buy my own blasted transport, it’s going to have to sit vacant.”

Obi-Wan could have reassured him, even without taking a physical look at the property.  Things on Tatooine tended to take care of themselves.  The mindset permeated the entire planet, sentient beings and non-sentient objects alike. 

With Rillian at his heels, Qui-Gon followed Obi-Wan and Anakin through the old farmstead, trekking through cool hallways and peering into abandoned rooms.  Through the carved stone was rough in some places, the underground complex was large, lit by ingenious skylights and tunnels that reflected down the intense sunlight from above.

“Dad said he stripped the place when my grandfather died,” Obi-Wan whispered at one point.  They were _all_ whispering, come to think of it, as if they didn’t want to disturb any lingering spirits.  “Keeps the Jawas away, once they realize there’s nothing shiny to steal.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t taken the doors,” Anakin said, grinning.  “Anything that can be pried loose is not nailed down, as far as they’re concerned.”

“Hmm,” Obi-Wan said, resting his ear against the cistern in the basement.  “Well, storage is all right,” he said, tapping on smooth metal.  “Still has at least a quarter of a tank of water in here.  If he ever wanted to rent the farm to one of the local families, they wouldn’t die of thirst while getting their vaporators hooked up.”

[Can we go now, please?] Rillian asked in a hushed growl, her eyes darting nervously around.  [Maybe it’s just from the Sharing, but I keep expecting to see your brother or Beru or Luke Skywalker walk around the corner, and it’s creeping me out.]

“My son was not creepy,” Anakin whispered back, miffed.

“We’re done here,” Obi-Wan interrupted, glancing around in the dim light as if he almost expected to see the same thing.  “Let’s go.”

Garen had chosen to stay with the ship, making rude noises about sandboxes and felines and how he was _not_ one.  He looked relieved when they returned in short order.  “Next stop, literal middle of nowhere,” he said cheerfully.  “Point me in the right direction, Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon could tell by the quick flash of repressed irritation in Obi-Wan’s eyes that he’d been thinking about starting off the pointing via rude gesture.  Instead, he settled into the copilot’s chair and rattled off a series of coordinates, ones he knew by heart. 

When they landed on the hill, a short distance from the humble white adobe dwelling that overlooked the Jundland Wastes, Obi-Wan let out a sigh.  “I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it looking a little less…derelict,” he said.  “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say it’s in worse shape.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think that place _ever_ looked shiny and new,” Garen said, staring at the old farm that, for eighteen years in some other place, some other when, Obi-Wan had called home.

“Think it’s still full of junk?” Anakin asked, resting his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. 

Obi-Wan shook his head as if to clear it and smiled at his Padawan.  “Only one way to find out.”

The answer to that question was an undeniable yes.  Qui-Gon eyed the gigantic pile of detritus and resisted the urge to cover his nose with his robe sleeve.  “Your memory of the smell was not accurate,” he said to Obi-Wan, who was looking at the mess with something far too close to fondness.

Obi-Wan nodded and stepped into the house, which entailed igniting a glowrod and climbing, taking careful steps from one pile to the next.  “How I got through this mess in the dark the first time, I’ve no idea,” he muttered, finding a piece of twine hanging from the ceiling and hanging the glowrod from it.  “Come on in.  Nothing in here will bite.”

Garen was the next person to brave the pile, clambering up and in.  “Hey, I found a chair!” he yelled a moment later.  “And it’s eating my leg!”

Anakin grinned and climbed in.  Qui-Gon watched in amusement as he helped Garen get his leg free of the rotten leather cushion.  “I think the rule of this place is, ‘Watch where you step.’  Care to join us?”

Qui-Gon and Rillian glanced at each other.  [I’m not going in there until my feet can touch the floor,] she growled.

“Nor I,” Qui-Gon added, not sure how Obi-Wan was getting around inside without sinking into the trash pile.

“Time to clean house, then,” Obi-Wan said, hopping down from the last of the stacks to stand in the rear of the house.  Anakin and Garen joined him.  “Might want to get clear of the door,” he said to Qui-Gon and Rillian.

Qui-Gon grabbed his Padawan’s hand and pulled her back, feeling the quick buildup of energy just before the house’s contents began spewing out of the entryway, along with a thick cloud of dust.

“That is _so_ cheating!” Anakin declared over the din.  “Especially since you’re letting Garen do it!”

“I promised I wouldn’t do any heavy lifting,” Obi-Wan retorted.  “And he’s better at this!”

By the time the house was more or less divested of trash, there was a literal mountain of debris sitting in the sandy yard.  Rillian stared at it, wide-eyed.  [How in the Sith hells did all of _that_ fit in _there_?] she howled.

Obi-Wan stepped outside, wiping dust from his face.  “That’s what I wanted to know the first time around.”

“Not worried about breaking anything?” Qui-Gon asked, walking over to join Obi-Wan and Rillian. 

Obi-Wan plucked a sheet of flimsiplast out of the pile, studying it.  “There’s nothing to break, Qui,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s all exactly the same, just like I once found it.  I even remember this,” he said, holding up the ’plast.  “Record of purchases made in Anchorhead at a store that hasn’t existed in…”  He frowned.  “Twenty years, right now.”

“Hey guys, I can get the trapdoor open without the keycards!” Anakin called.  “Want to come and see?”

Rillian trotted off, curious.  Obi-Wan tossed the receipt down, gazing off into the distance.  “Are you all right?” Qui-Gon asked, feeling a surge of emotion that he couldn’t quite identify.

“Is it—is it wrong that I half-expected this place to not be here?” Obi-Wan said, gazing out at the Wastes, rocks and canyons and craggy overhangs stretching from the base of the cliff as far as the eye could see.  In the other direction was the Dune Sea, endless hills of shifting sand.  The hovel was the central point between two vast, seemingly empty places, alone in the wilderness. 

“Not really,” Qui-Gon said, taking his mate’s hand with a faint smile.

“I mean, it seems like as the years pass, everyone else becomes more assured that this was real, and I feel like I’m losing faith in that.  Yet, here we are,” Obi-Wan said, glancing back at the house.  “I can touch this place and know that it’s real, that every part of my life _happened_ , and I just feel…like I’m drifting.  Like what we’re doing now is what’s not real, because it’s all new.  Everything from this point forward is something new.”

Qui-Gon thought about the past year, and the changes that had come with it.  “Every change has been a step in the right direction,” he said, and knew this with absolute certainty.  “Every moment that we veer from what was will ensure that the children of the next generation will never suffer under an Empire’s yoke. 

“I am not saying that it will be easy, that there will not be conflict,” Qui-Gon said, when Obi-Wan gave him a disbelieving look.  “Change always brings conflict on some scale.  But, by coming back to this place and time, you and Anakin brought us the means to find the path to the least bloodshed, the greater chance for the Order to come through this with our eyes, hearts, and minds open, capable of seeing all paths once more.”

Obi-Wan turned and embraced Qui-Gon, burying his face in Qui-Gon’s tunics.  Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around his mate, glad for the sense of hope he could feel through the bond.  “You always have such a way with words.  It’s no wonder I keep you around,” Obi-Wan said.

“Oh, is that the only reason?” Qui-Gon said, grinning.

“Well, there’s the sex, too,” Obi-Wan replied, laughing against Qui-Gon’s chest.  He lifted his head, his eyes shining brighter than the twin suns beating down on them.  “Will you sit with me tonight?  I want to see the stars from this place, one last time.”

Qui-Gon lowered his head, kissing lips that were far too much of a temptation for any sane man to resist.  “I would be honored,” he whispered.

They had the roof to themselves that evening; Garen took one look at the Wastes starting to move as the second sun began to set, and had declared that his Tatooine holiday was over.  He, Anakin, and Rillian were lying on top of the Skipray, and Anakin was naming each star as it appeared, his voice carrying through the air with ease.

“And that one is…Denarth.  No, wait—”

Obi-Wan lifted his head.  “Ventrix, Padawan!” he yelled.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Okay, so Ventrix, Parth…”

Obi-Wan settled back into place, his head pillowed on Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  They stared up as the sky grew darker, more and more stars appearing as the veil of night took over from the suns.

Qui-Gon had to admit; as far as stargazing went, Tatooine had one of the clearest, most pristine skies he had ever beheld.  “They are beautiful,” he said, watching as his breath became mist as it left his lips.

“Mmm,” Obi-Wan agreed, sighing out another white cloud to mingle with the first.  “I spent so much time out here, Qui.  I think I will remember this particular pattern of stars above my head forever.”

“Forever’s a long time, Obi-Wan.” 

“Well, that’s how long I plan on loving you, so I suppose we’d better get used to the idea,” Obi-Wan replied, snuggling in closer.

Qui-Gon’s heart ached at the words, full of such sudden, near-agonizing joy that it brought tears to his eyes.  “I suppose we should,” he whispered.  “For the record, I do intend on pursuing you for all of time, as well.  I love you far too much to ever wish to spend my time doing anything else,” he said.  He curled around Obi-Wan so that he could run his fingers through Obi-Wan’s windblown hair.

Obi-Wan smiled at him, and Qui-Gon noticed what he had not felt—there were glistening tracks of tears at Obi-Wan’s temples.  He brushed them away with his fingertips. 

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, staring at Qui-Gon with starlight reflected in his eyes, illuminating his skin.

“For what?”

“For saving my life,” Obi-Wan said, leaning close enough to speak the words against Qui-Gon’s skin.  “In one way or another, you have always saved me.”

“Always,” Qui-Gon murmured, nuzzling against his mate’s hair, smelling faint spice and clean warmth.  “I will always be there for you.”

“Promise me,” Obi-Wan whispered.  “Promise me, and I’ll believe you.”

Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath.  He well remembered the words Obi-Wan had once spoken, flung at his spirit in a fierce riot of temper:  _You and promises do not sit well with each other._   He was never again going to earn such a truth, and when he made his pledge, he spoke the words to the mate of his heart and to the ghost of the man he had once been.

“I promise, Obi-Wan.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

They set fire to the pile of trash at dawn, a bonfire that would likely attract the attention of every Tusken Raider and Jawa in the region, and stayed with it until there was nothing left but a smoldering black and gray pile of slushy ash. 

“Think anyone will notice that we did them a favor?” Garen asked as they walked back to the ship.

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “Garen, I doubt anyone will ever even buy the place.  Remember, I was the crazy one.  No one living on Tatooine wants to be this far from civilization.” 

They boarded the ramp.  Obi-Wan came to a sudden halt at the top, staring into the hold.  Qui-Gon peered around him, taking in the two leather-bound trunks and the conspiratorial grins on Garen, Anakin, and Rillian’s faces.

“We, ah, liberated them last night while you two were snogging on the roof,” Garen said, smiling.  “We don’t think anyone will miss them.”

“I thought you should have them back, Master,” Anakin said, gazing up at Obi-Wan with a wobbly smile that spoke of hesitancy, shyness, and encouragement.  “They’re yours, after all.”

[We did make sure to empty them, first,] Rillian added.

“I...”  Obi-Wan stepped forward and knelt down, running his hands along the lined edge of the trunk.  Whatever leather had gone into their creation had withstood decades of Tatooine’s environmental abuse.  “I—thank you,” Obi-Wan said, lowering his head to brush tears from his eyes.  “Who needs Jawas with you guys around?”

“Well, we’re taller,” Garen began.

“And know how to bathe,” Anakin added, grinning.

[Utinni,] Rillian said in all seriousness, which made Qui-Gon burst into unexpected laughter.

Obi-Wan smiled, looking happier than he had in days.  “Thank you, really.  Now let’s get the hell off of this rock and go home.”

Qui-Gon nodded, surprised to realize that home was feeling more like the farm and less like the Temple—or perhaps it was because he took the most comfort from wherever his mate and his Padawans dwelled.  No matter which it was, for now, Kaazcint was home.


End file.
